My oldest sister lives in my mother’s cozy, little home. Since mom’s been gone the house continues to absorb memory after memory, constantly purging them forth year after year as we ready another year for our family reunion without her. My dad and my mother produced nine children, three girls and six boys. There are eight of us still living. Each of us begin a project for the reunion and auction it off to the highest bidder. The money made from the auction goes towards the next year’s reunion. As we rummage through the past, finding things that are freshly remembered, I become embraced and entranced in the small things and think of what and where they have been. I touch the few items left behind and know I must be smudging the fingerprints they left behind. I am reminded of moms secluded giggles she would make when the slightest risqué remark was made. I see the reflection of myself in the twilight in her evergreen eyes as I gaze into her photographs. I see my dad watching television with his sunglasses on. Sunglasses my wife bought him thirty plus years ago. I found them today, unexpectedly in mom’s pantry in the kitchen, aged with time and glazed over with a film of years. I touch them, held them in my hands for a while and began the journey backwards. Sometimes it seems like it was quite a distance, but really it isn’t far away. As I continue to immerse myself in moments of years gone by, I find my daddy’s signature on documents, payments, bills and correspondences he made with people, realizing at that moment, that he too was human with responsibilities and duties. I study the signature for just a few minutes, visualizing his heavy, thick hand writing a beautiful cursive signature, almost too feminine looking to have been a man’s, but there it was, a moment in his time, part of his existence, leaving his parting gifts to be found, like this old leather, weather beaten, scratched up cigarette case with his name scratched into it and a flap that slips into a loop covering the cigarette package. In its oldness and accrued weatherization, I find a moment of childhood rest left in its secrets. Awakened from my simple lapse of time, I hear my sister say, “do you remember this”? She holds up a multicolored, striped towel that had been folded over with eight pockets sewn into it. My mother used to hang it next her bathroom. It held her talcum powder, perfumes and slippers, you know the ones that use to fold into themselves? It had a memory for every pocket. Soon my sister said, “I am going to put this in the auction”. It will be called the memory pockets. “There will be something in each pocket to bid on, something of mother’s, but no one will know what is in the pocket until it has been bid on”. “This will be great” she said. I see my sister now, beautifully aging like my mother, resembling her through the tears. I can feel her loss and see her kiss the empty pocketed towel that will soon be filled as a Christmas stocking, full of my mother’s goodness. Many things anew were discovered this morning, oh not in that what we found hadn’t been seen or touched before, but that everything we looked at served a purpose and that every purpose attached itself to a string in our hearts.
Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)