Recently I visited the house in Las Vegas, N.M., in which I was born, but I came away with an empty feeling. Nothing seemed the same as I remembered, yet my visit helped me appreciate even more the memories I grew up with.

The Gallinas River runs through the heart of Las Vegas. My parents took my siblings and me on river outings, often ending up in Gallinas Canyon north of town.

The house in which I was born on Railroad Avenue still stands, its old doors inviting me in for a visit.

The bleachers in Keys Park need painting before the next Little League season. For the kids who played there, the park echoes with the cheers of friends and family.

I was born 49 years ago in the old house at 733 Railroad Ave. in Las Vegas, N.M., though I don't remember a lot about my early years there. I was 5 when we moved to California.

I've been back to my hometown maybe 10 times since I returned to New Mexico 28 years ago, and I always manage to drive by the old house, even if I'm just passing through town.

Through the years the house has become something of an icon for me, bringing back memories of the stories my siblings told me about our life in Las Vegas.

In a Little League game one summer, my brother hit a home run out of Keys Park and the ball landed in the bed of a pickup truck on its way to Farmington. Days later the local newspaper, the Las Vegas Optic, reported it as the longest home run in the city's history.

Mom and Dad drove us to Gallinas Canyon north of town for a picnic when I was 4. My sister refused to get out of the car, afraid she would be eaten by a giant gallina — a hen. I remember Dad driving the car into the shallow river and us washing it in the cold water.

On Friday evenings we'd sit on the porch with Mom and wait for Dad to come home from work. He'd show up with a six-pack of Coke in one arm and a bag of chips in the other, and we would enjoy "Coke Friday" in front of the TV in our cozy living room.

Last month I drove to Las Vegas again. This time I knocked on the door at 733 Railroad Ave., not sure what to expect. The couple living there welcomed me in to see the place where I was born. I didn't remember a lot, but it looked different than I expected. It was too small and run down, not as fresh and clean as Mom kept it.

The long hallway at the front door was familiar, and I felt a chill when I walked into the kitchen and the floor squeaked. "I remember that," I thought. But that was it.

I left with a hollow feeling in my gut, realizing that the house I was born in was still there, but the home wasn't.

I guess some things are better left as memories sprinkled with a little imagination.