22
It is January and the sky is a vibrant blue today. Not something we often see here in Oregon in the dead of winter. There is a cold wind blowing the clouds and rain away, rain that would remind me of that day 22 years ago when I said goodbye.
I don’t want to always feel sad on this day, and yet I do. I feel sad that as I watch my girl play he’s not there to chase her around the house or terrify her with stories of bugs and wild animals, as he used to do with my cousin and me when we were small. I call my mother and wish that he was there to join in the yelling of I love yous and I miss yous into the phone line across the distance.
I guess what I miss now isn’t so much for me anymore, as it is for what could have been and what should have been for her. Sad for him that he never got to witness the impish delight in which she goes through life, finding laughter and smiles in the smallest of things.
He would have loved that she likes to help in the kitchen.
I’m left to only imagine in my mind’s eye the two of them together. I can see her standing on a stool, next to him, as I once did. Stirring something in a pot. I see her under a blanket, being read a story, clutching an old teddy bear that once belonged to me.
I see my past and my present collide so fiercely when I look at her. I see his ears. Ever so slightly pointy and elfin. I see his eyes, which are also my eyes, peering back at me under impossibly long lashes. I imagine how his face would light up when she would come over to play. There would be tea parties and games of hide and go seek.
I know he’s watching over us and smiling somewhere. I feel it, I believe it.
Tomorrow I’ll sit down with pictures and my girl and we’ll talk about him and how much I loved him, and how much she would love him too. I”m the keeper of the memories, now, of the past and all it contains. I’ll try to bring him to life as much as I can, for her. And for him.
Memories on a Map
The highway dips under a train track. For as long as I can remember the sensation of that sudden downward movement made my stomach flip every time we drove that way. The low bridge sign always made my minds eye envision a truck getting wedged under the bridge. Up the road there are raised strips on the pavement to let you know you are getting close to a 4 way stop sign. In summer it was always shady, thanks to oak trees and pine trees filtering the light.
Then there is the hill that runs through the center of town. It is where I once got stuck during a winter storm when the imbecile I was behind decided to stop halfway up. It is also the hill that houses the hospital my father died in. The same hospital that my mother worked in. The one that cared for me when I had to have a gall bladder removed.
There is the windy, hilly street that led to our neighborhood. On weekends teenagers, with their freedom from the realization of mortality would speed along, sometimes while drinking. The evidence of their jaunts was strewn across the ditches and yards; bottles and cans, and sometimes car parts.
The two lane state highway that wound through a forest. Driving it every single day, once up, once back. Once, diverting onto a logging road, all mud and grime. Pounding, sideways rain, all thanks to an asshole of a storm named Andrew.
Another two lane road. Houses scattered farther and farther apart as the town becomes smaller in the mirror. Passing by the church I found comfort in. Next the funeral home where I last saw my father.
A country road. Pavement at first, turning to gravel. Up and down small rises. One last turn, left. Home.
**I, for some reason, was on Google Maps today looking at the town I grew up in. Those streets are more than names on a map. They are my past. My memories.
I write here
I’ve Been Featured On:
I Guess I Don’t Suck
