Drove down I-95 today to visit the place where my mother grew up, and where my brother visited two years ago. As I walked around, I couldn’t help but wonder how everything is so relative. As I looked at the park benches where my brother and mother used to be, thoughts raced through my mind:

What was it like twenty years before mom was born? How about one hundred?

We don’t appreciate the memories of places, I feel. It’s so easy for people to just look at their environment relative to them, but I wonder how many even bother thinking way beyond their time. It’s like walking in a cemetery and wondering what everyone would say if there were alive. If only I could ask.

Regardless, it’s just another Sunday. To those who visit the park after me, I’m just a ghost. I guess that’s just how it is.