Avila Road

Avilla Road

 The sun had a way of turning the old grey chipped paint into a light blue hue during the long warm days of fall. A sea of yellows, and reds, and dim orange blanketed the ground around an old oak tree that the two kids climbed each holiday to redress its apparel appropriately. The fence around that yard had its own decorations year round of Jasmine that perfumed the home and the neighbor’s home and the streets; a sweet smell that forever became connected to the old quiet town full of Jasmine. Behind the boastful branches of an oak, behind the shutters, beyond the glare of the afternoon rays, lied a living room caressed by family photos in light wooden frames along the walls. Inside that room was a fireplace, and its masculine mantel piece, and there were little tick marks on the wall with little numbers, and a yellow floral couch, waiting for the family in the photos to come home. In the front of the house there was a young maple tree rooted deep within a small dirt patch next to the dark maroon bricks that created stairs leading up to the dark grey and light blue paneled doors. The kids knew that one day that maple tree would become more of the house than the house itself; it would grow to define the yard, and the street, as it did their memory of the solemn grey house.
He was a boy of five and she was a girl of seven but they resembled each other remarkably. Out in the middle of the road they looked like identical twins; their metallic brown hair glowed in the sun, and their collection of freckles was visible through the pastel dust covering their pale Irish faces. The set of siblings could sit there for hours swimming in the puddles of California leaves, relishing the warmth of golden sun on their backs, only moving when they found themselves in the shadow of the Maple tree. They loved that tree, and the squirrels that danced on its branches just like they loved the way lizards poked their heads in and out of the tiny slits of the shutters next to the windows. Everything was big and meaningful and held feelings; everything had a story, and the two best friends made sure to remember every character and plot.
“Jonathon, Rebecca, come inside real quick.” Their parents were not yet middle aged but were already tired of working, and responsibility. With retirement came the opportunity to move and without consideration they took it. They would leave in three months, but in the children’s eyes it wasn’t enough time; there could never be enough time to finish the stories.
Their glorious fall turned into a bitter winter that blockaded them inside a house full of cardboard boxes filled with Styrofoam padding.  Their holiday became filled with packing away belongings and erasing their marks from the home; erasing their height charts, taking down crayon paintings of sunflowers and rocket ships, and cleaning out the storage closet they converted into a laboratory the summer before last. It was too cold to say goodbye to the acorns, and the pines, and the Jasmine lined fence. Behind a tower of labeled boxes, they gripped on to the vacant window sill, and with all their weight balancing on the edges of the their toes, they stared out into the yard through a blurry window and whispered goodbye from a afar, taking pictures of a memory they thought they would keep forever. “Goodbye spider in the corner, goodbye spider web, goodbye brick pathway, goodbye lizards”. Soon they were silently wiping each other’s tears during the ride to the air port, they told themselves they would be back soon. “Good bye Maple tree”.
Their hopes for frequent visits dissipated in the sun of their new playground. Their new home had the same yellow floral couch and a larger yard to play in. They would occasionally question when they would go back to their real home with the chalk filled street, but eventually the questions veered away from returning. They only wondered whether their Maple Tree was lonely, and in months time when they become reassured it was not, the questions stopped altogether.
They moved into a small white house, with a large wild yard in the front that went on for a mile until the mail box. In the backyard was a pool with a broken screen that was framed by old rusted metal and a dock made of soggy driftwood that creaked when the current was rough in the river. The living room was designed to overlook that river, and that’s where the old yellow couch went. The windows took in light that filled the white walls and white tiles illuminating the whole house, and those same windows stayed open on most days to let in a slight breeze along with a trace of sea wind.
The little boy grew much taller than his older sister but they had the same brunette curls and toothy grin and when they stood together and talked their mannerisms mirrored one another’s.  But as time gradually went by they no longer found themselves needing each other for entertainment or comfort. Before long it became time to leave the white home and they went off to college, and graduated, and had families of their own. Soon only annual Christmas cards kept them in touch.
So much time had gone by before their parents felt obligated to host a reunion of sorts. They showed up with half grins and cheap bottles of wine and a need for people to assume they were happy. They masked away their problems but from years of experience they couldn’t keep anything from one another. They confided in each other; they missed enjoying an embrace, smiling at memories, laughing at dumb jokes; they missed being happy. A picture in a glass aqua frame brought them back to a time when they were astronauts, and princesses, and dragon slayers, and when anything was possible. Jonathon bought the plane tickets the next day.
What they wanted to find was their youth, and the ability of simple things to make them happy again, but they realized they couldn’t find it here. The grey shutters had been painted over maroon and the maple tree grew tall and beautiful but it no longer loomed over the entire yard as they remembered. They were graciously welcomed into the cream colored living room that had the same rose wood fire place, but it was empty without the chocolate syrup stained rug and wooden picture frames and bowls of Gardenias their mother would collect to perfume the home. It was the same house, with nearly the same furnishings, but it was no longer their home; seeing the house, just seeing it, could not bring them back. As hard as they tried they couldn’t connect to the nostalgic memories when everything had stories and a point and could bring smiles to their freckled faces bringing out their identical dimples.
The solemn siblings walked to the window overlooking the front yard. The dusty window sill held a pumpkin spice candle in between a crystal bowl of pine cones and a picture frame of an elderly couple with their grandchild. They had to squint. The window held the same opaque tint from years before, and through it they saw their children beneath a pile of dark red maple leaves throwing each individual leaf in the air and then watching the beauty of it as it slowly zigzagged its way back to them in the pile of leaves. Jonathon opened the front door and called the cousins inside, it was nearly time to leave. He was disappointed because his plane ticket could not buy him back to happiness and every second he stood there looking over what he thought he could remember of laughter, and genuine joy, was making him more aggravated. He wanted to leave the grey house.
Up the dark maroon pathway ran his blonde son who completely took after his ex-wife with his wide brown eyes and golden mane. He rushed passed his father with youthful enthusiasm and an inability to stop. Frustrated, Jonathon motioned to the car and said, “You need to calm down. We are leaving soon.” Jonathon looked at this small, peach skinned boy with a blanket of dried mud covering the length of his two legs, when he caught a glimpse of familiar dimples. From behind his back, his son held out a handful of Jasmine filling the room with pungent sweet cologne. Jonathon stared at the jasmines and closed his heavy eyelids and slowly soaked in the clean fragrance. He could feel it manifest inside of him. After long uninterrupted seconds, he turned to the elderly man by the door, “If you wouldn’t mind, we would like to stay a bit longer.” And he went outside and silently sat down on the damp brick steps. He twirled a bit of Jasmine in between his calloused fingers and watched his children play and noticed the spiders in the corner.