Comments on: Regularity is a Crime

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By: Daniel Spendlove

Daniel Spendlove — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:09:01 +0000

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By: amber

amber — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 18:50:38 +0000

As a child, my mother and I moved to Des Moines; she was 24 years old. She had been freshly divorced from my father who still loved her deeply, however she was “alone” and independent for the first time in her existence with her five year old in tow.
She had come home to the town she had grown up in. I went to my mother’s elementary school, her middle school and her high school very few years after she had been there herself. Her teachers remembered her, and were shocked by my age in relation to hers– I made teachers realize how fast time can pass in the same town.
Des Moines held the moments of her childhood and eventually came to hold my own; I remember sneaking out and feeling the epic first moments of adventure, the smell of the ocean on the days of low tide, the way the foggy mist settles in the dips of the hills on the way to school, the street where I had my first kiss after being walked home, the way my grandmothers backyard felt so large when I was a child. And as I grew up my memories changed greatly; I can intensely remember the drive home after I had my first taste of heartbreak, the moment I stepped onto the bus fully robed to my journey of high school graduation, and the way it felt to finally get away from the small town. My car full of boxes and my windows rolled down.
I could never see Des Moines as a place to move to, but a place to move from. A place to have loved so deeply for what it held—but not for what it has in store. A place that holds memories but never futures.