I’m sitting under the old pine tree in Sunrise Park — the one that leans gently toward the fence line behind my childhood orchard. From here, I can see the spot where I used to stand, looking through the chain link fence at this same stretch of grass. The years seem to have folded neatly together, and I feel like I’ve been dropped back into a random, mild fall Saturday afternoon from my childhood.
The air smells the same — pine sap, dry earth, shrubs, and cut grass drifting lazily through the breeze. Even the rays of the sun feel identical, warm and golden as they filter through the branches. The light lands the same way it always did, soft and forgiving.
The Cessnas still drone out of Cable Airport, tracing steady paths overhead. The birds call in familiar tones — maybe descendants of the ones that filled my mornings. Even the insects buzz with their quiet rhythm, like a song that never ended. The cluster of trees ahead, the one I once thought was a vast forest, still stands proud — a pocket of wilderness cradled in the middle of suburbia.
Then comes the low rumble from the south — the same deep sound of planes lifting off from Ontario Airport. It used to make the world feel too close, too loud, the vibrations rolling through the air like a long stretch of thunder. And sometimes, it wasn’t planes but helicopters, heavy and low, rumbling in from the west. Their blades would rattle the windows and the ground, and before I could even see them, I’d sprint inside and bury myself somewhere safe until the noise passed.
Now, I stay. I listen. The same sounds that once filled me with fear now fill me with memory. The sunlight, the smells, the stillness — they all hold hands with the past.
And then, faint but clear, I hear it — the long, distant horn of a train rolling through Narod. It carries through the valley like an echo from another time. That sound was part of the backdrop of our day, part of the rhythm of life in Montclair. It still is.
I’ve been sitting here for a while now. The shade’s shifting, the sun creeping lower, and I know I’ll have to leave soon. But I don’t want to. I wish I could stay until the light fades, then walk back through the fence like I used to — out of the orchard, back into the house.
I can picture it: the screen door creaking, my mom in the kitchen, the smell of dinner filling the air. Maybe I’d wash up, maybe she’d ask me to set the table. Maybe later, I’d go back outside to listen to the crickets or the soft murmur of a plane in the distance.
But there’s no going back into the house when I’m done outside. My mom’s not waiting to do my laundry or make my food. The orchard has changed, the fence belongs to someone else, and this place — as familiar as it feels — isn’t home anymore.
Still, for a little while, sitting here under this pine, it almost was.
