"When you ride with me," my grandpa said, "you've got to humor me, so how about we take a drive past your old ranch in the country. It'll only take an extra ten minutes."

I didn't really mind. I had chicken strips so contentment was mine.

"Your mom was telling me that they tore everything down and they are building a new house now."

At that moment I felt as if everything that was good and true in the world came up into my throat and that I would surely vomit. "Oh please, Grandpa, I don't want to see it," I asked, trying mask the horror in my voice, "I think I will cry." I wanted to tell him that I felt like the world was going to cave in on me if I saw that my most treasured place on earth no longer existed.

I was already in a heightened state of emotion because I had just spent a few hours with my childhood piano teacher, who is recovering from open heart surgery. My heart was full of enough memories and nostalgia as I felt I could take.

But, he decided that I would be fine and I could just close my eyes if I really had to. When my grandpa is determined to do something, he doesn't understand the meaning of the word no.

As we drove down that familar rode I was reminded of so many things: The walks my grandpa and I would take in the river, raising sheep, getting pulled over and almost crashing on certain curves numerous times. The trees were so familar, the houses so much the same, but yet, things were changing and I was reminded that nothing stays the same. But, what happens when I don't remember how things used to be? What happens when I drive down that road again and don't remember that there used to be an old wooden sign that said "Froggy Hill Vineyard" where Kermit the Frog sat, perched, watching me every time I got off the bus.

When we turned the last corner, I fixed my eyes on the trees where I knew my house would appear from if it was still there. I held my breath. The moments were torturous. Then I saw it. It was still there. Relief.

I am afraid that if I see my old property without my old house on it, that this new memory will replace the old memories of how it looked. I don't want to forget it. It's already fading... The new owners tore out almost all the trees, both yards, the decks, the doghouse, the fences... EVERYTHING is gone. I know one day the house will be gone too, with a new one in it's place, but I just don't want to see it. I never want to see it. There are already too many images stored in my mind of how it looks now. I don't want to be able to recall these images anymore... they are ugly, depressing and painful. They kill me inside. I spent eighteen years of my life at 200 Lupine Lane and our family put so much of ourselves into it. And to see that someone just ripped everything out... discarding it as trash. Oh, it hurts so much.

I wish I could say that it will always remain perfectly preserved in my memories, but I can't. Memories fade and alter themselves. Nothing stays the same.

I am homesick for a home I can never return to.