Does everything just seem bigger when you’re a kid?
Today I drove to the park down the street, the same one I used to visit years ago. My biggest worry before getting there wasn’t the park itself, but the drive—specifically whether I’d miss my turn or fail to slow down in time for the dedicated left-turn lane. I managed, somehow.
When I finally pulled in, I realized how small the parking lot actually is. There are two lots, one on each side of the park. I ended up in the one closest to the garden, though it was the trickier of the two to angle into.
I texted my parents to let them know I’d arrived safely and felt a wave of relief when I saw other people there. The garden looked tiny compared to how I remembered it. As a child, the park had felt twice the size, the hills steeper, the paths longer. The park itself hadn’t really changed, aside from a few new features—it was me who had grown.
The garden was simple but alive: a small creek running under two creaky wooden bridges, succulents tough enough to withstand California heat, a monarch butterfly clinging to a sapling, and a buttercup-yellow one dancing above summer flowers. The gravel paths were slippery, and I nearly lost my footing walking uphill.
Concrete statues stood in the center of the looping paths. Off to the side, a small community garden remained unlocked, which surprised me. Wouldn’t they worry about theft? Yet nothing was vandalized. Wooden-and-wire covered flower beds kept rabbits away from the tomatoes, strawberries, and other vegetables I couldn’t name because they were just green. A compost pile and watering area tucked neatly in the corner showed how well-loved the space still was.
The last time I’d been here was during an elementary school birthday party. I remembered it sharply—not the party itself, but the aftermath. A friend had revealed things about my home life I hadn’t wanted shared, and it led to a confrontation. I cried afterward, walking this same garden with my mother as she comforted me. What stayed with me most wasn’t the comfort, but the horsetail plants—green stalks that looked more like asparagus than horse tails. Today I searched for them, but they were gone. Maybe they’d been removed. Maybe they’d just died off. I’ll never know, but I missed them.
Leaving the park is when things got messy. I followed GPS toward the grocery store, but one wrong turn sent me looping down side streets until it announced, “You have arrived at your destination on the right.” My destination, however, was across a busy main road, separated by a concrete barrier.
Panic set in. I tried pulling into a nearby church lot but was met with a glaring “EXIT ONLY” sign. At the last second, I swerved a little to the left and ended up parking on the roadside—clipping the curb in the process.
At the grocery store, I parked crookedly across two spots and whispered a nervous, “Please don’t park next to me,” as I slipped out of the car. Today wasn’t a good day for parking.
The drive home had one final challenge: a left-turn yield on green, one of my biggest fears. My hands got extremely sweaty from anxiety as I crept forward, watching for an opening. Somehow, I made it through safely. With another car on the other side making a left-turn-yield on green as well.
And that was it—I pulled into the driveway, shaken but intact. Another drive, another step into being on my own
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