Sandpaper Memories
Hello fiction, old friend.
I guess I knew something was wrong the day I was brought to tears in the aisle of a local Home Depot. I had gone shopping with my mother who was there to find the right kind of sandpaper for my father. After returning home the day before with a slightly more coarse variety, my father had yelled quite aggressively indicating my mother needed to "pay more attention to the labels". I had returned home for a vacation of sorts and was living once again with my parents. Not since I had moved out to go away for school had I been home for more than a few days, and now I was bravely attempting an entire week. I decided to accompany my mother on this particular outting, just to get some fresh air and away from a volatile atmosphere being created by the construction of a new kitchen in my parents home.
I always feel a tingle of excitement as I approach the entrance to Home Depot. The smell of fresh lumber and plastic is one of my very favorite. Ever since I was little I remember very clearly each visit I made to Home Depot with my father. As a young girl I would attempt to learn about each type of hardware as my father carefully sorted through nuts and bolts to locate the correct size and shape. I would wonder wide eyed as I stared at the various types of pipe, and would be hypnotized by how lovely different shades of wood look all lined up neatly side by side. I would stick my hand into different containers full of rocks and stone for landscaping to feel the cool textures. Things sold in mass that are normally seen in small quantity always give me a sense of giddiness. Production, industrialization. This never ceased to add a tinge of wonder to my life even in the darkest of times.
The one section that haunted me the most was the long aisles of ceiling fans and lights. No matter how far removed you are from childlike wonder, standing below a ceiling of 50 or more gently rotating fans sends everyone into a place of joy. I would stand below and stare up into the blades, watching them glide in their permanent paths, slightly transfixed by their ethereal glows and cool blowing breeze. Somehow these aisles reminded me of a sadness I often felt, but I could never articulate. The mass of swirling fans and their dangling cords seemed to represent dreams of a better life, presented to you in every variety. Each ceiling fan waiting to find its home, with a family that would find it to be the most perfect compared to all the others. These fans represented options and permanance in a home I didn't know. It was only when you were really going to stay in one place did you concentrate on what type of fan you would buy. Most of us are no where near that place in our lives. Especially, it seemed, me.
My mom was talking frantically with the local salesboy, asking and then re-asking him to explain how you knew what type of sandpaper works best with different woods. I watched her move her hands sharply around her body trying to emphasize her points and desperation. The 17 year old salesboy just watched her with his brows furrowed, waiting for her to finish so he could begin his memorized statement claiming what he knew and learned about sandpaper. I lowered my eyes to the cement floor as I turned slowly and began to wonder on my own adventure. I didn't need to witness this. I knew where this was going. In spite of what my mom knew best she would buy whatever the sales person would tell her, because she had no confidence in her own knowledge. Then when she got home and predictably it would be the wrong type, my father would yell at her again and she would claim ignorance. I decided it was time to go for a walk.
I began to search the aisles for familiar landmarks. Power drills, ladderes, screws and my beloved ceiling fans. I found batteries and sinks next to toilets and duct tape. I loved the way things were categorized. I moved slowly as I approached the place that makes my heart skip each time. I saw it coming and still I kept moving toward it. The paint section. Immediately the thoughts came flooding back to me. Peter and I had been shopping for paint so many times. We had been so happy and excited for our first home together. We had moved in to bare walls and empty space and we were excited to fill it with our love and our style. We picked out reds of every color. Creams to compliment the rich brown woods. These colors also represented choice and hope. Now each and every color I saw in that aisle represented regret. Every shade of red to green seemed to remind me of what used to be. I ran my fingers up and down the paint samples stopping at colors that were bright and beautiful. I moved closer to a row of mossy greens that was soft and reminded me of his eyes. I picked up a sheet of warm green hues and tapped my finger on the one that looked most like him. The color was called Summer Green Meadows and below it simply Nostalgia. I closed my eyes and I pictured him smiling as we began to first paint our living room walls. Our home had been so warm and full of life. When I opened my eyes the bright flourescent lights blinded my vision. I looked back down onto the paint sample and felt ashamed at my indulgence. It had been far too long that I had been holding on to memories. I slid the sheet back into its spot on the stand and moved down further away from these bits and shaded pieces of my past.
As I went deeper into the store I found myself standing near the vanity stands and mirror displays. I walked up to the antique stand that had an embroidered chair and peered into the mirror at my sollen face. My eyes had dark circles and my hair needed to be washed. I put my hand up to my face and pushed my cheek in just to feel my skin move. I was surprised at how soft I felt and how little the emotion on my face changed. I moved my fingers down my arm until reaching my forearm where I grabbed a bit of skin and pinched tightly. The pain was like a sharp sting, but nothing in my face changed. I had never noticed before how little my emotions show on my face. But here I was in this enveloping store, reminiscing of my past with a love unmatchable, and I couldn't bare to show a single sign of sadness in my expression. I pictured us together the few days before Peter had died. All we had done was fight. I remembered his eyes as he told me to get out and never come back, and I watched carefully at my face in the mirror to watched for a sign or reaction. Nothing came. I remembered collapsing on my floor when I got the call he had been in the accident. I remembered going through his clothes after he died and sniffing his favorite bright yellow shirt and how I nearly died from heartbreak. I remembered how I had lied and said I didn't love him anymore when I ended our relationship just to protect myself from being hurt. I looked deep into my face in the mirrow and watched as the tears began to well up in my dark brown eyes then glide down my cheeks touching my nostrils and over my lips. I didn't move a muscle. Nothing in my face changed as the tears continued to fall. Everything about this place reminded me of him and our life together. It seemed like no place was safe anymore. The deep smells of wood and crisp bright smell of cut plastic would forever bring me back to my memories of my dear, sweet Peter.
My mom came around the corner and saw me standing in front of the vanity looking deeply at myself like a zombie. She gasped, "Sarah, what are you doing?" but I could move. She put her hand around my arm and pulled me around to look at her. I watched her lips move as she said "What is the matter with you?" and I could feel the sandpaper in her hands rubbing against my skin. I just stared at her face as everything changed, contorted, moved up and down and showed her emotion. I wondered why my face never seemed to do that anymore. I blinked slowly and parted my dry lips.
"Sarah. Sarah...please say something. Why are you crying?" She looked terrified, I looked completely lifeless and glassy eyed.
Finally, the words came out. "I miss him." And then like a great rush the sobs began.
My mom pulled me into her arms and held me as I felt the wave of sadness come through my body like a powerful electric pulse. We walked through the store and she threw the sandpaper down onto an empty space on the shelf as we made our way to the exit. It didn't matter anymore what she bought. She would leave empty handed.
As I made my way out of the automatic doors and stepped into the bright blinding light the blue sky seemed to shock me back into reality. My face was swollen and wet from the tears and the sun began to quickly dry my face. He was gone, and I had known that. Even though I still talked to him in my dreams I knew it was time I let go. My dream of that perfect love together seemed to be planted inside that store of home supplies and equipment. Each of those products represented the tools you need to build a life with someone. It only struck me then, on that very day admist the lumber and sockets, that I had no idea where my life was, or more importantly, where it was going.
I guess I knew something was wrong the day I was brought to tears in the aisle of a local Home Depot. I had gone shopping with my mother who was there to find the right kind of sandpaper for my father. After returning home the day before with a slightly more coarse variety, my father had yelled quite aggressively indicating my mother needed to "pay more attention to the labels". I had returned home for a vacation of sorts and was living once again with my parents. Not since I had moved out to go away for school had I been home for more than a few days, and now I was bravely attempting an entire week. I decided to accompany my mother on this particular outting, just to get some fresh air and away from a volatile atmosphere being created by the construction of a new kitchen in my parents home.
I always feel a tingle of excitement as I approach the entrance to Home Depot. The smell of fresh lumber and plastic is one of my very favorite. Ever since I was little I remember very clearly each visit I made to Home Depot with my father. As a young girl I would attempt to learn about each type of hardware as my father carefully sorted through nuts and bolts to locate the correct size and shape. I would wonder wide eyed as I stared at the various types of pipe, and would be hypnotized by how lovely different shades of wood look all lined up neatly side by side. I would stick my hand into different containers full of rocks and stone for landscaping to feel the cool textures. Things sold in mass that are normally seen in small quantity always give me a sense of giddiness. Production, industrialization. This never ceased to add a tinge of wonder to my life even in the darkest of times.
The one section that haunted me the most was the long aisles of ceiling fans and lights. No matter how far removed you are from childlike wonder, standing below a ceiling of 50 or more gently rotating fans sends everyone into a place of joy. I would stand below and stare up into the blades, watching them glide in their permanent paths, slightly transfixed by their ethereal glows and cool blowing breeze. Somehow these aisles reminded me of a sadness I often felt, but I could never articulate. The mass of swirling fans and their dangling cords seemed to represent dreams of a better life, presented to you in every variety. Each ceiling fan waiting to find its home, with a family that would find it to be the most perfect compared to all the others. These fans represented options and permanance in a home I didn't know. It was only when you were really going to stay in one place did you concentrate on what type of fan you would buy. Most of us are no where near that place in our lives. Especially, it seemed, me.
My mom was talking frantically with the local salesboy, asking and then re-asking him to explain how you knew what type of sandpaper works best with different woods. I watched her move her hands sharply around her body trying to emphasize her points and desperation. The 17 year old salesboy just watched her with his brows furrowed, waiting for her to finish so he could begin his memorized statement claiming what he knew and learned about sandpaper. I lowered my eyes to the cement floor as I turned slowly and began to wonder on my own adventure. I didn't need to witness this. I knew where this was going. In spite of what my mom knew best she would buy whatever the sales person would tell her, because she had no confidence in her own knowledge. Then when she got home and predictably it would be the wrong type, my father would yell at her again and she would claim ignorance. I decided it was time to go for a walk.
I began to search the aisles for familiar landmarks. Power drills, ladderes, screws and my beloved ceiling fans. I found batteries and sinks next to toilets and duct tape. I loved the way things were categorized. I moved slowly as I approached the place that makes my heart skip each time. I saw it coming and still I kept moving toward it. The paint section. Immediately the thoughts came flooding back to me. Peter and I had been shopping for paint so many times. We had been so happy and excited for our first home together. We had moved in to bare walls and empty space and we were excited to fill it with our love and our style. We picked out reds of every color. Creams to compliment the rich brown woods. These colors also represented choice and hope. Now each and every color I saw in that aisle represented regret. Every shade of red to green seemed to remind me of what used to be. I ran my fingers up and down the paint samples stopping at colors that were bright and beautiful. I moved closer to a row of mossy greens that was soft and reminded me of his eyes. I picked up a sheet of warm green hues and tapped my finger on the one that looked most like him. The color was called Summer Green Meadows and below it simply Nostalgia. I closed my eyes and I pictured him smiling as we began to first paint our living room walls. Our home had been so warm and full of life. When I opened my eyes the bright flourescent lights blinded my vision. I looked back down onto the paint sample and felt ashamed at my indulgence. It had been far too long that I had been holding on to memories. I slid the sheet back into its spot on the stand and moved down further away from these bits and shaded pieces of my past.
As I went deeper into the store I found myself standing near the vanity stands and mirror displays. I walked up to the antique stand that had an embroidered chair and peered into the mirror at my sollen face. My eyes had dark circles and my hair needed to be washed. I put my hand up to my face and pushed my cheek in just to feel my skin move. I was surprised at how soft I felt and how little the emotion on my face changed. I moved my fingers down my arm until reaching my forearm where I grabbed a bit of skin and pinched tightly. The pain was like a sharp sting, but nothing in my face changed. I had never noticed before how little my emotions show on my face. But here I was in this enveloping store, reminiscing of my past with a love unmatchable, and I couldn't bare to show a single sign of sadness in my expression. I pictured us together the few days before Peter had died. All we had done was fight. I remembered his eyes as he told me to get out and never come back, and I watched carefully at my face in the mirror to watched for a sign or reaction. Nothing came. I remembered collapsing on my floor when I got the call he had been in the accident. I remembered going through his clothes after he died and sniffing his favorite bright yellow shirt and how I nearly died from heartbreak. I remembered how I had lied and said I didn't love him anymore when I ended our relationship just to protect myself from being hurt. I looked deep into my face in the mirrow and watched as the tears began to well up in my dark brown eyes then glide down my cheeks touching my nostrils and over my lips. I didn't move a muscle. Nothing in my face changed as the tears continued to fall. Everything about this place reminded me of him and our life together. It seemed like no place was safe anymore. The deep smells of wood and crisp bright smell of cut plastic would forever bring me back to my memories of my dear, sweet Peter.
My mom came around the corner and saw me standing in front of the vanity looking deeply at myself like a zombie. She gasped, "Sarah, what are you doing?" but I could move. She put her hand around my arm and pulled me around to look at her. I watched her lips move as she said "What is the matter with you?" and I could feel the sandpaper in her hands rubbing against my skin. I just stared at her face as everything changed, contorted, moved up and down and showed her emotion. I wondered why my face never seemed to do that anymore. I blinked slowly and parted my dry lips.
"Sarah. Sarah...please say something. Why are you crying?" She looked terrified, I looked completely lifeless and glassy eyed.
Finally, the words came out. "I miss him." And then like a great rush the sobs began.
My mom pulled me into her arms and held me as I felt the wave of sadness come through my body like a powerful electric pulse. We walked through the store and she threw the sandpaper down onto an empty space on the shelf as we made our way to the exit. It didn't matter anymore what she bought. She would leave empty handed.
As I made my way out of the automatic doors and stepped into the bright blinding light the blue sky seemed to shock me back into reality. My face was swollen and wet from the tears and the sun began to quickly dry my face. He was gone, and I had known that. Even though I still talked to him in my dreams I knew it was time I let go. My dream of that perfect love together seemed to be planted inside that store of home supplies and equipment. Each of those products represented the tools you need to build a life with someone. It only struck me then, on that very day admist the lumber and sockets, that I had no idea where my life was, or more importantly, where it was going.