It was just a photograph posted on Facebook. Just a picture of an old house. It immediately brought moisture to my eyes and the longer I gazed at it, at every detail, the more the tears flowed.
Mortality becomes more and more assaulting as we approach and embrace midlife. Our grandparents and parents pass away. A few of our friendships are cut short by devastating diseases and catastrophes. All we have are “photographs and memories” to quote Jim Croce.
Although so much was different about this house and yard, everything was just the way it should be in my mind. I stood up to escape from it, for just a moment, not realizing I was still crying. My plan to get a breath of crisp winter air to cleanse my overwhelmed heart was interrupted by husband.
“What's the matter? Why are you crying?”
“It's nothing.”
“You can tell me you'd rather not talk about it but I know it's NOT nothing!”
I absentmindedly touched my cheek to wipe away my tears and but only began to cry harder. Keith stood up from his computer and hugged me.
He followed me back to the bedroom to my desk. My screen still wearing the photo like a scarlet letter. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I saw your Aunt Wanda had posted that.”
I nodded and gazed ever so deeply at the windows. As if I could actually see inside this old house again. Frequently, I dream of this house. He was still standing beside me. I didn't even realize I had sat down.
Then I began to rattle off a list of memories and changes to the house.
“These bricks used to be a light turquoise.”
“The grass is greener right in the middle of the yard because Granny had the most beautiful rose garden right there.”
“The swing was right over here. Granny and I would swing and look up in the sky. That's where the story of 'See Dat Burd?' came from. I was 18 months old.”
“Papa's wheel barrow always seemed to be right there. I remember him pushing me in it.” I am so thankful I have a few memories of him.
“See this window? That's the one I looking out of when I was seven years old, when I realized there was no Santa Claus.”
“This window? I tried to runaway with my doll suitcase packed and the babysitter caught me climbing
out one night. I was eight.”
“This tall tree? Our cat, Bruce, was chased way up in the branches by the neighborhood meanie cat. My dad, who despised cats, climbed up there and rescued him.”
“Papa built that amazing two-story garage back there and the playhouse for Aunt Cathy where she 'let' me be a student when she played school.” Cathy is only four years older than I am.
“My Papa made hand churned ice cream in the garage and I would sit on the rock salted top while he cranked it.”
“My first Christmas, my first Easter, many birthdays...I saw my first snow here, started first grade when I lived in this house.”
“I got my first record player here. I rode my bike up and down the long driveway again and again and again because we didn't have sidewalks and Momma wouldn't let me ride in the street.”
“I remember Papa died here. I even remember exactly what I was wearing. Turquoise baby doll pajamas. The color the bricks used the be. I remember packing my Granny's bookshelves when she remarried and moved to the country. My family moved in when I was six. So many family members had lived in this house. This house is full of memories....good and bad ones.”
Papa died when I was four. I am the oldest grandchild; the only one to have any memories of him. They are all in this photo. I'm still crying.
This photograph was posted by my Aunt Wanda less than 48 hours ago. During those hours, I have relived the ten years that I lived, loved and hated the world in this house. The first ten years of my life are in this picture of a house that belongs to someone else in a neighborhood no longer safe.
Her comment under the picture stated:
“Do any cousins or family remember this house, 116 E. Woodland Dr., seems like a lifetime ago, this is what memories are made of....”
It was a lifetime ago, my lifetime.
No comments:
Post a Comment