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It’s strange how certain memories that seem insignificant in terms of the events they represent manage to stay with you and strike a chord even decades later.

I can’t remember too much about Mr Smith now. I have a vague picture in my mind of what he looked like but I can recall that he was a kindly gentleman of a bygone era who was bespectacled, retired and lived with his wife a couple of doors down the street from my friend at-the-time Andrew.

I only met him on a couple of occasions when Andrew would enthusiastically insist we visit Mr Smith’s house to get our skateboard wheel bearings oiled. Mr Smith would kindly oblige our request and methodically apply WD40 oil to the bearings of each of our skateboard wheels in his shed while we watched with the excited impatience that only twelve/thirteen year old boys can possess in such abundance.

I remember feeling awkward and somewhat ashamed to be there when Andrew hurried off as soon as his wheels had been oiled. Maybe a quick and somewhat insincere thank you in response but he was gone - just like that. Sadly this was Andrew’s way - just use people for his own gain (no matter the situation) and then move on. That never sat well with me and I felt bad stood there wondering what Mr Smith must have thought of his nearby neighbour’s son behaving with such disrespect.

I thanked Mr Smith and subsequently made my way back through his living room. I also thanked his wife, who was sat in one of the armchairs facing the television, as I felt a little awkward disturbing her as I passed by. She must have been in her mid-sixties and appeared quite frail. I wasn’t prepared for her suddenly exclaiming how she didn’t know what she would do if her husband was to pass away before her.

I didn’t have the emotional maturity nor grounding to even begin to be able to navigate that statement. I think I smiled and wished her the best which, as an extremely naive and un-experienced-in-the-game-of-life twelve year old, was probably all I really could offer (even as insufficient as my words and the overall gesture clearly were).

I never saw Mr Smith again after the summer of ’89. I don’t know what became of him nor his wife. I imagine that they have both passed away since that time (as I would estimate they were both in their mid to late sixties over 3 decades ago).

I contemplated revisiting their house 23 years later, shortly after I had returned to my hometown, but decided against doing so. If they were still alive would Mr Smith even remember who I was and even if he did what would we have to converse about? I can imagine how awkward and empty such a conversation would be - as it has been with many of the people that I revisited from that time.

So much of my past has become a distant stranger now in terms of how that resonates with me during this stage in my life. So much of what I once identified with feels like it belongs to someone who I used to know and now have so little in common with.

Time changes attachments to the landscape of one’s past yet seemingly random and insignificant events persist in the form of memories that last for a lifetime.

I still can’t figure out why.

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