Somewhere Only We Know

In May, I traveled to Illinois Mother’s Day weekend to see my mom. It had been just over six months since my last visit. I had the idea to host Mother’s Day brunch at my mom’s house and invite my aunt and cousins, thinking it would be quieter and less harried than a restaurant on Mother’s Day, which it was. We ate and lingered around the table — just talking. The day prior, I had invited myself to join my aunt and cousin at the farmers’ market. It was a good visit.

Back in March 2025, my mom had fallen, broken her hip, had a hip replacement, and required rehab. I was profoundly concerned about my mom’s ability to return home alone after rehab, so my aunt and I toured an assisted living facility together. By May of 2026, my mom was managing her walker and a mop bucket.

Over the summer, things changed for my aunt, and by September she was moving into a care facility. I traveled to Illinois Labor Day weekend in an effort to support my cousin and aunt as they navigated this strange, new, unfamiliar terrain.

As I drove to the facility in early September, I passed the King Arthur Court apartment complex — the first place I can remember living as a small child. The sparkling topaz jewel in the center of the complex was, and remains, the swimming pool — where my love of water was born. I can still call to mind the smell of the chlorine and remember the concrete rough against my small feet.

As I drove by, I thought, “How is it possible that my aunt stood in our living room there, dressed as Big Bird one Halloween long ago? A grown-up who would help me. And now, she needs help and I’m a grown-up here to offer that.”

I was a princess that year — wearing a pink gown and yellow crown that my mom had made for me. Truth be told, I wasn’t much of a princess that year — initially refusing to don the costume that my mom had labored over. In the end, I relented and look a bit sullen in some of the photos.

Back then, my aunt drove a big, rambling Suburban that, to my younger self, seemed to have endless rows of seats.

My aunt, uncle, and cousins lived in a house we always entered through the back, climbing what seemed to my childhood self like an endless flight of wooden steps before finally reaching the deck.

We’d enter into their kitchen, which to me always smelled of lemons — but I don’t know that it smelled that way to anyone else but me. My uncle was large and towering, with dark hair and dark eyes. A look that scared me in the ‘70s and early ‘80s — it was a similar look that Phil, my mom’s friend’s husband, had, and I was equally unnerved by him when I was little. Which is weird because my own dad had dark hair and dark eyes — but he was shorter.

While in Illinois in early September, I also drove by the park I’d played at when small. The park still exists, but the equipment has long since been upgraded. Gone is the blue and white twisty metal slide that would sear young legs in the summer. Nevertheless, I found that slide irresistible.

I ended my Labor Day visit vowing to return with Andrea and the dogs in a few weeks.

And we did return, only my aunt wasn’t there anymore.

She passed away on September 18th.

This is still incomprehensible to me, and I’m sure incomprehensible to my cousin, who has been busy with the necessary, pressing logistics demanded of those who loved them.

My cousin has a brother too — another cousin, approximately seven weeks my junior. I’d imagine he wasn’t too sad to imagine my taillights fade in the distance. Perhaps I could have behaved better, but in all fairness, he could have behaved better — and not just now.

I’m not here to judge that and yet, I do.

I thought about writing him a letter, but no one wants to receive an intervention in an envelope — no matter how well-intentioned. I am not qualified to judge — or am I? I understand the allure of attempting to drown feelings, but I know those fuckers can swim. Everyone has a different bottom, and I fear that his will be death.

My aunt had done a lot of genealogy work and saved numerous photos of my grandparents. I schlepped a tote of photos back to my mom’s house one evening and marveled at history I’d never seen — photos of the house my grandparents had built in the “during” and “before” stages.

• 

I’d spent a lot of time within those four walls when I was young. It’s one of the few places I am sentimental about.

While I Illinois, I schlepped several photos to a man who scanned them onto a thumb drive for me. When I returned home, I printed a few of my grandparents and placed them into vintage looking frames and tucked them into the secretary in my home office. Andrea observed, “Your getting sentimental in your old age.”

Even when I was a child, I was always acutely aware of having a small family. But what escaped me when I was young was the fact that stars would eventually dim, flicker, and then burn out altogether.

The first star I recall burning out was my grandpa when I was in the sixth grade. I wailed from my church pew while my grandma remained stoic.

Long after he’d gone, the sweet scent of pipe tobacco lingered in their home.

Somewhere Only We Know

Keane ‧ 2004

I walked across an empty land

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand

I felt the earth beneath my feet

Sat by the river and it made me complete

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on

So, tell me when you're gonna let me in

I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

I came across a fallen tree

I felt the branches of it looking at me

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on

So, tell me when you're gonna let me in

I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute, why don't we go

Talk about it somewhere only we know?

This could be the end of everything

So, why don't we go somewhere only we know?

Somewhere only we know

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on

So, tell me when you're gonna let me in

I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute, why don't we go

Talk about it somewhere only we know?

This could be the end of everything

So, why don't we go?

So, why don't we go?

Ooh, oh-oh

Ah, oh

This could be the end of everything

So, why don't we go somewhere only we know?

Somewhere only we know

Somewhere only we know