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I had a really rare moment this weekend, one completely to myself, which of course I now feel compelled to share with the blogosphere.

Sunday was a gray, overcast day, the kind where the wind cuts more sharply because of the humidity, and your bones ache. It was the perfect weather to venture out alone to roam around old haunts.

What I wasn't prepared for was the kind of rolling waves of sadness and memories that built on themselves. The haunting Brio site, where we played softball and lined up along the new houses for parades, all gone, bulldozed into the toxic ground; San Jacinto where my grandaddy went to my summer psych class to talk about his early books on reflexology in one of his last outings before he lost most of his memory; Memorial Hospital that opened my junior year when I wanted to be a candy striper, but only if I could work in the ER (which didn't have volunteers assigned) so I quit; the Blake house where Trent's band practiced; across from Melissa's house, who hated me and seemed to conspire to cut me down every chance she had; the park where Jimmie asked to "go together" after meeting at the Skate Ranch the night before; the MUD building where we had girlscout meetings before Cindy's mom got sick with cancer and passed away; Steph's parents house and all the nights I spent there; that killer bike ride to Marty's house; the "back" way around to Meador, long gone, with the spooky crumbling house we dared each other to run up to; the basketball courts behind Lance's house; the field behind Dobie where Daddy and I flew box kites we'd made; the 7-11 where I rode my bike alone; the ditches I played in; it just rolled on and on until it had built up and burst forth by the time I hit Sageville. The second house on the left burned down one night. I remember mammammy waking me up in the middle of the night to come see. The people rebuilt in a newer style (at the time) and it sticks out oddly now, an old house among older houses. I remember every house on that street I'd trudged up to in order to sell girl scout cookies door to door; every kid I played with; or babysat, or the older teens I shyly watched from the house came rushing back to me. But the tipping point was my attic window. I took one look at it and the tears just started rolling. God, I loved that attic. Mom's old stained glass stuff all over the table up there in the little room; poking through the rafters to pull out old toys in cardboard boxes; making a cool hangout that could only be enjoyed a few days out of the year when it wasn't sweltering or freezing up there; the narrow built-in staircase inside the utility room where Alicia slept and the overhead door that dropped into the floor. It was just an old dark window pane, but it meant everything to me in that moment.

Five big trucks parked all over the place, boarded up windows, peeling ugly brown paint, missing trees, it's all so ugly and horrible, but that little window was just beautiful, and I realized that's why I was crying.