A few weeks ago I had the chance to reconnect with some of my childhood classmates from Royersford Elementary School. I hadn't seen them in nearly 50 years. About a dozen of us gathered in a quiet restaurant. They have had these little get-togethers before, but it’s different for them. For the most part, they shared their entire school years together, graduating in 1972. Susan, the woman who sat directly across the table from me said, “I sort of remember you. Something is familiar in your eyes.” It’s weird being the kid who moved. You become a faint (if any) memory to your classmates. Just a smiling face in the group photo. “Remember Holly? She’s the one who moved.” For the one who left, time stands still. When my mother left my father in December 1963, I had no warning that my parents were divorcing. I had heard no arguments, no slammed doors. I was nine years old. So whatever the signs were, I missed them. Like every day, my best friend Sherry and I walked home from schoo
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