my barrier, broken.
Suddenly there are no memories.
I'm on the floor, hiding in the corner of a small bathroom, instant goosebumps emerging on my bare legs which lay lifeless on the chilled tile. A cell phone, which has been attached to my hand for many hours, is now pressed against my ear. The fan is on and the rumbling is almost too loud for me to hear my quiet mother on the other end. I let it spin though, to keep my conversation muffled, afraid that my roommates will hear it when my tears meet the tile.
I've escaped to my bathroom. The floor is cold, the fan is loud, and I'm alone with my goosebumps. My great-grandmother has just passed away. It is the night before the first day of spring and my last letter to her was one day too late. Eventually, i peel myself off of the floor and shield my upset cheeks from a small crowd in the commonroom. Without word, i quietly close my door and fold myself into bed and stare at the shadows on the ceiling created by the blinds, before submerging under layers of sheets and blankets and pillows. Somehow it feels that if i can curl up tight enough, both arms hugging my knees, i may become smaller and disappear beneath the dark cotton.
Despite the snow, i didn't need a jacket. For me, the depressing new england air was just the opposite of gloom. Fifteen days prior i had been stifled - my body congested with warm air and sun rays. New Hampshires stiff spring made me shiver until i could feel every part of my body. I live for that feeling - just before I am numb from the inside out, I can feel my senses wake up. i know i am alive.
The sound of my heels clapping on the hard-wood floors made me feel more new yorker than i wished to feel at that moment. The constant click of stilettos has a ring of savvy city business persuasion. My grandmother was neither city nor devious and I felt uncomfortable as my outfit didn't fit the occasion. I should have worn my moccasins.
The church is nearly empty but I'm in the company of family. I pirouette through the building. Upstairs i can see my grandparents in the sanctuary and i can hear my sisters composure. Downstairs I recognize a corner where family pictures were taken, when i was about ten, of the four generations. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother were sitting behind me. My laughter, blonde waves, and intense red sweater exploded in front of them. Briefly i argue with my mother. Thinking back, I have no clue what words were exchanged but I do know that I hurt my mom and I'm sorry for that insignificant fight. Death has a way of doing that to the living.
Conversation begins to coat every wall of the church as loving friends and extended family start sifting through the front door. But I am not a part of this chatter. I am stuck on something. I am a record player with a tiny scratch - trapped on the same beat unable to get past the broken static. I separate myself from the comforting talk. At the time i was unable to explain the feeling. My heart was sad that my grandmother had died but this barrier i built, this bubble i wrapped myself in, was not created out of grief. Was it guilt for not carrying on conversations long enough at the nursing home or not learning enough about this graceful woman? Or was it that my chaotic mind and my boring life were colliding and my world as a whole was wrapped in a bubble, and her death was merely the pin that pricked its delicate surface? I'm not sure, even now, and i think it may have been a combination of the two.
I can't recall the time Sarah and I belted 90s hits from a karaoke machine as great grandma watched with quizzical looks of interest and confusion. And I can not remember the time I was sitting on my living room floor, furniture not yet replaced from the infamous house fire of '05, unwrapping the pastel pencils great grandma sent me with my full name engraved on each one.
Suddenly there are no memories. And this is what bothered me most.
My family has gathered in a room just down the hall from the sanctuary. The bare walls and humming refrigerator are cold and i would much rather be in one of the youth rooms downstairs. I think grandma appreciated the artistic value of a wall covered in finger paintings. My sister and cousin ask me why im pacing the room as we wait for the service to start and make our way to our second row seats. i'm unable to answer, both because i myself am not certain why i'm pacing - not so much nervously but in more of a robotic fashion - and because, even if i did know the answer, I'm much too consumed with my own thoughts, or lack there of, to pay mind to anyone but my own.
Myself, along with my sister and two cousins lit the chalice. My small yet meaningful job was to come up with the words i would speak as steven lit the candle. This task would have been unbelievably easy had I been in any other church, at any other moment, for any other reason but this one. I scribbled three standard lines on the back of a grocery store list before leaving the house and I read them clearly as the flame sparked in front of us. As the four of us stepped down from the stage and headed back to our seats, the bottom of my unfitting city heals got caught in my delicate skirt and in one graceful swoop i was on my knees, my skirt dangling far below my waist line, trapped under my stiff legs. One hundred people stared down at me, no one helping, no one offering a hand, only whispers. The moment lasted far longer than what one would consider a typical "moment". I felt like an actor who, mid show, forgot her lines as she stared back at an audience who now saw not a character but just a young girl caught in the lime light, speechless. Later the family members who were so fortunate to have front row seats to my embarrassment, told me that my fall was "poised". Supposedly I stood up, my dignity fully intact, and returned to my brown chair with my sister and two cousins.
I will never forget that moment. And not because i am mortified that i pantsed myself at my grandmothers memorial service. But because when i sat back down I had no power over my emotions. The four of us started to laugh. Not just giggle, but bursts of hysterics slightly muted with our hands. Which in turn made us cry. I was human again. My barrier, broken.
The rest of the service was peaceful and enjoyable. Anyone who wanted to speak from their seat and tell a story or memory of my grandmother was welcome to. I was still without a memory. My moms cousins Elizabeth made everyone cry. After the service Sarah and I stole desserts and, like children on an adventure, twirled ourselves through the unseen stairways and hidden doors. I didn't care for my jelly-filled tart but I did enjoy eves dropping behind collapsible walls.
A month later i found myself packing up my dorm room in tampa. The semester had suddenly come to an end and i wouldnt be returning after the summer. As I tossed my clothes carelessly into no specific suitcase, I came across a blue tee shirt with the words Free Spirit painted across the front. Suddenly there is a memory.
A few years ago i was out to dinner with my family, including my great grandmother. I was sitting next to her and i was wearing this busy blue tee shirt. The shirt is splattered with paint, a trend that quickly came and went. The words Free Spirit sloppily brushed in white. My grandmother leaned over and said quietly in her delicate voice, "I like the butterfly on your shirt". I hadn't realized that the "I" in the word Spirit was dotted with a little butterfly. I told her I didnt even notice it. "Always pay attention to the details, dear." She was firm and polite, quite and advising, helpful and genuine, all in the same moment. This is what i remember of her. Though this memory may seem small and insignificant - its no great lesson or deep discussion - but the sincerity in the way she said it made me feel like she truly cared. She really hoped i would pay attention to the details.
Maybe when we meet again she'll ask me if my knees still hurt.
I'm on the floor, hiding in the corner of a small bathroom, instant goosebumps emerging on my bare legs which lay lifeless on the chilled tile. A cell phone, which has been attached to my hand for many hours, is now pressed against my ear. The fan is on and the rumbling is almost too loud for me to hear my quiet mother on the other end. I let it spin though, to keep my conversation muffled, afraid that my roommates will hear it when my tears meet the tile.
I've escaped to my bathroom. The floor is cold, the fan is loud, and I'm alone with my goosebumps. My great-grandmother has just passed away. It is the night before the first day of spring and my last letter to her was one day too late. Eventually, i peel myself off of the floor and shield my upset cheeks from a small crowd in the commonroom. Without word, i quietly close my door and fold myself into bed and stare at the shadows on the ceiling created by the blinds, before submerging under layers of sheets and blankets and pillows. Somehow it feels that if i can curl up tight enough, both arms hugging my knees, i may become smaller and disappear beneath the dark cotton.
Despite the snow, i didn't need a jacket. For me, the depressing new england air was just the opposite of gloom. Fifteen days prior i had been stifled - my body congested with warm air and sun rays. New Hampshires stiff spring made me shiver until i could feel every part of my body. I live for that feeling - just before I am numb from the inside out, I can feel my senses wake up. i know i am alive.
The sound of my heels clapping on the hard-wood floors made me feel more new yorker than i wished to feel at that moment. The constant click of stilettos has a ring of savvy city business persuasion. My grandmother was neither city nor devious and I felt uncomfortable as my outfit didn't fit the occasion. I should have worn my moccasins.
The church is nearly empty but I'm in the company of family. I pirouette through the building. Upstairs i can see my grandparents in the sanctuary and i can hear my sisters composure. Downstairs I recognize a corner where family pictures were taken, when i was about ten, of the four generations. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother were sitting behind me. My laughter, blonde waves, and intense red sweater exploded in front of them. Briefly i argue with my mother. Thinking back, I have no clue what words were exchanged but I do know that I hurt my mom and I'm sorry for that insignificant fight. Death has a way of doing that to the living.
Conversation begins to coat every wall of the church as loving friends and extended family start sifting through the front door. But I am not a part of this chatter. I am stuck on something. I am a record player with a tiny scratch - trapped on the same beat unable to get past the broken static. I separate myself from the comforting talk. At the time i was unable to explain the feeling. My heart was sad that my grandmother had died but this barrier i built, this bubble i wrapped myself in, was not created out of grief. Was it guilt for not carrying on conversations long enough at the nursing home or not learning enough about this graceful woman? Or was it that my chaotic mind and my boring life were colliding and my world as a whole was wrapped in a bubble, and her death was merely the pin that pricked its delicate surface? I'm not sure, even now, and i think it may have been a combination of the two.
I can't recall the time Sarah and I belted 90s hits from a karaoke machine as great grandma watched with quizzical looks of interest and confusion. And I can not remember the time I was sitting on my living room floor, furniture not yet replaced from the infamous house fire of '05, unwrapping the pastel pencils great grandma sent me with my full name engraved on each one.
Suddenly there are no memories. And this is what bothered me most.
My family has gathered in a room just down the hall from the sanctuary. The bare walls and humming refrigerator are cold and i would much rather be in one of the youth rooms downstairs. I think grandma appreciated the artistic value of a wall covered in finger paintings. My sister and cousin ask me why im pacing the room as we wait for the service to start and make our way to our second row seats. i'm unable to answer, both because i myself am not certain why i'm pacing - not so much nervously but in more of a robotic fashion - and because, even if i did know the answer, I'm much too consumed with my own thoughts, or lack there of, to pay mind to anyone but my own.
Myself, along with my sister and two cousins lit the chalice. My small yet meaningful job was to come up with the words i would speak as steven lit the candle. This task would have been unbelievably easy had I been in any other church, at any other moment, for any other reason but this one. I scribbled three standard lines on the back of a grocery store list before leaving the house and I read them clearly as the flame sparked in front of us. As the four of us stepped down from the stage and headed back to our seats, the bottom of my unfitting city heals got caught in my delicate skirt and in one graceful swoop i was on my knees, my skirt dangling far below my waist line, trapped under my stiff legs. One hundred people stared down at me, no one helping, no one offering a hand, only whispers. The moment lasted far longer than what one would consider a typical "moment". I felt like an actor who, mid show, forgot her lines as she stared back at an audience who now saw not a character but just a young girl caught in the lime light, speechless. Later the family members who were so fortunate to have front row seats to my embarrassment, told me that my fall was "poised". Supposedly I stood up, my dignity fully intact, and returned to my brown chair with my sister and two cousins.
I will never forget that moment. And not because i am mortified that i pantsed myself at my grandmothers memorial service. But because when i sat back down I had no power over my emotions. The four of us started to laugh. Not just giggle, but bursts of hysterics slightly muted with our hands. Which in turn made us cry. I was human again. My barrier, broken.
The rest of the service was peaceful and enjoyable. Anyone who wanted to speak from their seat and tell a story or memory of my grandmother was welcome to. I was still without a memory. My moms cousins Elizabeth made everyone cry. After the service Sarah and I stole desserts and, like children on an adventure, twirled ourselves through the unseen stairways and hidden doors. I didn't care for my jelly-filled tart but I did enjoy eves dropping behind collapsible walls.
A month later i found myself packing up my dorm room in tampa. The semester had suddenly come to an end and i wouldnt be returning after the summer. As I tossed my clothes carelessly into no specific suitcase, I came across a blue tee shirt with the words Free Spirit painted across the front. Suddenly there is a memory.
A few years ago i was out to dinner with my family, including my great grandmother. I was sitting next to her and i was wearing this busy blue tee shirt. The shirt is splattered with paint, a trend that quickly came and went. The words Free Spirit sloppily brushed in white. My grandmother leaned over and said quietly in her delicate voice, "I like the butterfly on your shirt". I hadn't realized that the "I" in the word Spirit was dotted with a little butterfly. I told her I didnt even notice it. "Always pay attention to the details, dear." She was firm and polite, quite and advising, helpful and genuine, all in the same moment. This is what i remember of her. Though this memory may seem small and insignificant - its no great lesson or deep discussion - but the sincerity in the way she said it made me feel like she truly cared. She really hoped i would pay attention to the details.
Maybe when we meet again she'll ask me if my knees still hurt.