The freezing wind races over my face, like eons of heavy history in a moment's flash.
It pricks the senses of my skin -pins on a modeling doll.
Flinching my eyes, I gaze around me.
Did I return? Did I ever leave?
Is this hilltop familiar or even dear to me?
I see a bare and broken tree, but I remember it lush and heavy with apples.
It seems blackened and frozen now...
I see a gray, dirty boulder, and it reminds me of a pillow back when I was laying on the grass, under the warm sun, reading fairy tales.
Black damp spots and moss cover it now...
If this is the outskirts of my hometown, could it be those beaten and half-ruined houses over there are Mrs Thomson's and Mr Breill's?
I remember stealing figs from her garden tree and Mr Breill -always on his porch across the street- laughing and shrugging to her furious inquiries for a thief...
Rickety blinds are pounding under the grim wind's ferocity now.

I keep dragging my feet to move this heavy, strange body closer to its roots.
My eyes drink thirstily images of what past's future could be...
No, this couldn't be the alley we used to play ball..! It seems so small and uninviting. But Hugley Benson's statue over there still bends over his book.
He seems a bit more worried and tired now, frozen being exposed to this weather and all, but -there's no doubt about it, it's him.
We used to call him Mr. Bear because he has all this bushy hair and thick beard. Mr. Benson was a chubby man and the artist had the idea of making him
sit in an armchair and have him read a thick book for prestige. I used to think Mr. Bear was reading us stories of distant lands and far away places, until the day
I climbed the statue to discover the pages were blank! Such was my frustration that I started calling him Mr. Fake -much to the displeasure of most kids.
It was then when we had the first arguments and I lost some of my old friends.

Tucking my neck back into my coat, I walk towards the old pub.
"Drink the Sea" was the tavern my dad used to visit. And his dad before him. And every other village dad for that matter.
I remember the spooky nights I had to run here from home to call him to dinner. The road always had hidden monsters and traps; and every type of villain was hiding, lurking
in the shadowed corners and recesses. He used to laugh at me and tell his friends how my fears always bought him one last drink.
He'd always sit me on his lap and say "oh, what a fine lad life blessed me with" with a hearty laugh as he was messing up my hair.
Yes, I remember...
I remember when I started to frequent the place myself, at the dawn of my manhood. John, Terry and me looking for extra courage in a whiskey shot before we'd go hunting girls.
Rehearsing our lines, laughing at each-other's efforts to make a plot with female come-backs and all.
But I don't remember why I left...
Was it the dream of a wider world full of promises, or the hope of re-inventing myself at some new place I'd call my own home?
I do recall feeling unable to mark my presence in that town, not with so much history and markings of other people on it. I had to find my spot on the planet and carve my name on
a new tree, one that had fewer names on it.

The old oak door seems smaller and light now. I brush my feet on the worn mat and enter.
The place isn't changed and yet.. -it's different somehow. Still warm and inviting. The stools have new leather, but the wooden legs are the same. The tables are the same, the pictures hanging on the walls have multiplied -but I can still spot old known faces.
The lamps are still the same too, even though they could use a bit of dusting...
So what is it then? What makes this old bar; ...small?
It doesn't have tiny little people hiding between the cups on the shelf, no genius rats running under the tables tangling people's shoe-laces, no sleepy cat by the fireplace to yank her tail and hear Old Joe yell at yah "Leave Missy alone! I told you before. And get away from that fire -Bill, look what your son is doing.."
But Old Joe is still here! Old is an understatement nowadays, but he's there inside the counter wiping off stains on the glasses, with his son by his side.

As I unbutton my coat I reach the far end of the hall, one table before last. Like a weary seaman, I glimpse around to check faces.
I see John and Terry, my old partners in crime -sitting at a table with their little sons next to them.
They see me too.

-"Hey, Kalin! Is that you old pal?"

This Winter...

-"You sit at the wrong table buddy"; John laughs at me

Kalin

-"Come on over here"

Comes

-"He ain't at the wrong table" Old Joe replies, "he's where his father used to sit"

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