memoir

            The large grey colored sky that stretched across the land brought with it a cool, slight breeze that chilled my body as it blew across the yard that was scatted with thousands of acorns occasionally parted by grayish white mushrooms as they fought to reach the surface. The heat resting on my pink fingers contrasted the rest of my body as I used them to clutch a warm bowl full of a soup like substance that released a cloud of white steam into the early winter air. I used the plastic spoon that rested within to raise this unfamiliar creation, that I would later find out was called chicken and dumplings, to my lips. My mouth was pleased not only from the good taste of the food, but also the warmth that it brought to the rest of my body. I took a glance beside me at the low cracked cemented wall which, like most everything else in the yard, lay beneath the dry outreaching branches of a towering tree. My sister had chosen this spot on the wall to rest on as she finished off her own bowl of dumplings. An unspoken communication brought her to her feet and caused us both to step forward. We made our way across the yard every once in a while picking up a stick or acorn to toss in the few blades of grass that made themselves visible. After we successfully stumbled our way through the dirt terrain ripped apart by vain like roots, we stood facing an old door that stood as part of a small white house whose age had become visible as the weather ate away at the physical appearance. This house was familiar to my sister and I, both of us had made several visits here before.

My fingers chilled as I grabbed onto the metal knob that was attached to the door and a squealing creak arose as it moved inward towards the house. We made our way though the kitchen that laid directly behind the door. The remains of the dumplings were kept warm in a visible pot that remained on the stove. We both declined the invitation of a second serving that the sight of this pot brought. Instead we continued through to the living room, made lively by a television that set near the floor and the noise of exchanging conversation. We both eased onto the cold, hard wooden floor then let our weight carry our bodies to settle up against an old couch that our mother had been sitting on since we had first arrived at the house. The owner of the house, an old lady whose age was as apparent as the house itself, set across the room in a cushioned chair and took the opportunity, when there was a break in conversation, to speak to us. She asked, “Would you like me to cut you a slice of cake?” A smile formed upon my face as I replied, “Yes please, grandma.” It always seemed that on these visits that there would be a flawless pound cake mounted on the counter with a glass cover hovering just above it to protect its goodness from the rest of the world. This fact always excited me because the taste of her pound cake was unmatched by any that I had ever tried, or would ever try. My sister and I followed the lady the short distance to the kitchen and anxiously waited as we watched the blade of the knife come down and glide though the brown outside layer of the cake. Our eyes light up as she placed the plates and forks in our outreached hands. We then moved to reclaim our spaces on the floor. After several minutes the slice of cake that had rested in my hand had turned into small inedible crumbs and there was a migration to the door. After hugs were exchanged I followed my Mom and sister as they walked through the yard and found their way into the vehicle parked closest to the entrance of the house. My eyes remained fixed on the house as we made our way down the long driveway then onto the road. As we advanced forward the house became smaller until the horizon completely swallowed the small spec and it could no longer be seen.

            Years later we would stroll through those same halls again, this time focusing on every room, every wall, every little detail down to the key holes that made their way completely through the interior doors unlike any I had seen up to this point, allowing our minds to absorb all that it could from the images that stood before us. For this visit was not like the others, there was no half cut pound cake waiting on the counter top for our arrival, no television screening the daily soap opera, no joyful conversation between a lady and her grandmother. No, this visit would be filled with sorrow as we detached items from their natural habitat, placed them in boxes, and moved them to new resting places. We would find ourselves having to depart from several memorable items one being the old couch fondly remembered, having paid its service as a sort of center piece for holiday gatherings with the family for many years. We went away that day carrying handfuls of memories, which people passing by could easy mistake for simple cardboard boxes and donation type items. What we left behind however, was but an old vacant structure sitting, waiting to be filled one day with new faces. The new inhibitors will able to mask the old house to the rest of the world with paint and new doors to accompany the latest renovations. But these modifications will remain transparent to our eyes, as the beautiful old home with the sweet old lady rocking along inside, shines though in our hearts and in our mind.