One in the Back

When I was four or five or so I went to a preschool that was on the other side of town. It was a cute place with a huge playground and lots of dress-up games and crafts and I think it might have been attached to a church, but my mind is a little hazy after 20 years.

I carpooled there with two other kids. A girl and a boy who I had known for forever and who lived right near me. Our parents would take turns driving, and we would go the same exact way every morning and every afternoon.

I live in the suburbs. There are lots of subdivisions and weird strip malls and churches and restaurants and all your typical suburban stuff. There are also a couple of farms.

One specific farm, that we would pass on the way to school every morning had a whole bunch of horses that roamed in the field. My friends and I would count the horses every single time we drove past and then compare how many we saw.

And every single time I would lie.

I don’t know why. Maybe because I was 4 and a little shit, as 4 year olds can sometimes be. Maybe I wanted attention. Maybe I just really wanted to win.

But every morning we would drive by the farm, my friends would tell me how many horses they saw, and I would tell them a higher number, climbing they missed one or two that were back in the barn. And then every morning my friend would cry.

I’m not trying to pass this off as positive behavior. I’m not trying to say that this was a good thing to do or even a reasonable thing to do.

I’m just saying it’s something I did.

My parents still tease me about it. Every time we drive past that farm someone brings it up. I shrug, laugh along. Let them joke. It’s weird, and it’s ok for them to think it’s strange.

The thing about your hometown is every street corner seems to have a memory. The school where you grew up, the temple you went every week, the playground where you liked to sit and think. Some of those memories are warm and lovely. Some not as much. But you live with all of them, as you drive down streets and walk down sidewalks.

Home is the collection of these moments, all thrown together in a way that comes out vaguely rose colored in the rear view mirror. Home is the horses that actually weren’t hiding in the barn.

So I’m cool if my parents laugh a little. If my brother makes jokes. I’ll just roll my eyes, and be happy I’m in the place where so many of my memories are from.