(no subject)
My Uncomfortable World
I can still hear her voice, smell the yellow roses from the kitchen mixed sweetly with tea and see each line in her face and twinkle in those beautifully gentle eyes. Time has stood still in this house. Only a few things have been completely removed. While the rest of the dusty shelves hold dolls, the walls hold the pictures from ages long past. Stories told over and over again that drone gently in some far off corner.
My world has changed so drastically in the last few years. Nothing seems comforting. Yet this old rickety house holds more greatness within it than I think my heart can bear. A part of me died some time back when she was called from earth. Instead of owning up I pushed forward, ignored the loss, the pain, the anguish and I created what I thought would be good for me. I carved a new tale into stone, a brand new set of dreams, of aspirations, of thoughts and feelings. I became nothing more than a carbon copy of the mere pieces of others, a Frankenstein creature all my own. I was wrong. It all went wrong. This return has shown me that. I missed her so dreadfully that I wanted nothing do to with the rest of my own family. So I hid myself, and created a wall between the people who care about me the most and my heart. And now here I am almost too long afterwards wondering if it’s too late for me.
Although I do not have her, I will always have her stories, her memories, and her love. Somewhere along the way I forgot that. I suppose I didn’t want to face the idea of her loss, that I wouldn’t see her anymore, that all the things we were supposed to do together would never happen. She used to tell me all kinds of stories, about her family, life during the depression. Everything. Being in this house, this small over crowded house, still reminds me of the nightly arguments between my loving Portuguese grandmother and her sister. Every night Aunt Emma and my grandmother, Virginia was a complementary dinner and a show. No two people ever argued the same way as they did. Questioning each others dates and ‘facts’, nothing was just okay with them the story had to have the correct information and the proper citations. This was just a normal Rose/King ideal. A love of History and English formed almost immediately from these stories. Only to be manipulated by the rash and childlike decisions of a broken hearted girl.
I did not see, for I had closed not only my eyes but also my heart, I was cold, stone and empty. Shut myself off from my past and created my own Hyde. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be broken beyond anything I could have known. But it helps us to grow. To know and realize ourselves; no pain no gain, without the fire the phoenix would not be reborn. This should be seen as a good thing. This change, this rebirth of the self, to begin at the beginning, and work to a new healthier end is a gift to be treasured, not dreaded. These walls hold my past. Now I just need to harness my future. And so I sit, quietly, a glass of freshly brewed ice red rose tea lulling lightly in hand. Gently at first, seemingly picking up decibels after only a few seconds then rising and falling with Grandma’s natural inflections. She had returned.
“Have you any memory of your great grandfather?”
“Only you and Aunt Emma’s stories Gram.”
“Do you recall his letting a shoe drop?”
“Yes, he would come home from work and following supper go to bed, and only one shoe would make a sound upon the floor.”
“Very good. Yes, he would always take his first shoe off and THUMP upon the floor…”
“But the other wouldn’t come, no crash at all, no sound.”
“Thank you Emma.”
“I was just saying Virginia.”
“Yes, that is very true the other shoe would not drop, yet in the parlor we were waiting for another thud.”
It drifts away, slowly, listlessly, out of earshot and back into the past where she shall dwell; crisp, clean, unforgotten, and unbroken or smeared. The moment gone. I open my eyes; tears gently swell in smiling eyes. A simple story one of many and yet it is more meaningful than any tale ever told, better and worse, complete and whole.
She has not left this house. It still recalls her care, love, her grace. This is home, where she cooked, cleaned, adored and lived. A connection can be found here, to my past, to my father’s, to my grandparents. It is not just her voice which fills this place but his soft when directed towards me, stern and angry towards his sons.
The connection to my past, both great and horrifying brings great comfort in a time of need. I may be broken now, but at least I have my healing fields to return to. There will be no more running from the world. I am coming home.
I can still hear her voice, smell the yellow roses from the kitchen mixed sweetly with tea and see each line in her face and twinkle in those beautifully gentle eyes. Time has stood still in this house. Only a few things have been completely removed. While the rest of the dusty shelves hold dolls, the walls hold the pictures from ages long past. Stories told over and over again that drone gently in some far off corner.
My world has changed so drastically in the last few years. Nothing seems comforting. Yet this old rickety house holds more greatness within it than I think my heart can bear. A part of me died some time back when she was called from earth. Instead of owning up I pushed forward, ignored the loss, the pain, the anguish and I created what I thought would be good for me. I carved a new tale into stone, a brand new set of dreams, of aspirations, of thoughts and feelings. I became nothing more than a carbon copy of the mere pieces of others, a Frankenstein creature all my own. I was wrong. It all went wrong. This return has shown me that. I missed her so dreadfully that I wanted nothing do to with the rest of my own family. So I hid myself, and created a wall between the people who care about me the most and my heart. And now here I am almost too long afterwards wondering if it’s too late for me.
Although I do not have her, I will always have her stories, her memories, and her love. Somewhere along the way I forgot that. I suppose I didn’t want to face the idea of her loss, that I wouldn’t see her anymore, that all the things we were supposed to do together would never happen. She used to tell me all kinds of stories, about her family, life during the depression. Everything. Being in this house, this small over crowded house, still reminds me of the nightly arguments between my loving Portuguese grandmother and her sister. Every night Aunt Emma and my grandmother, Virginia was a complementary dinner and a show. No two people ever argued the same way as they did. Questioning each others dates and ‘facts’, nothing was just okay with them the story had to have the correct information and the proper citations. This was just a normal Rose/King ideal. A love of History and English formed almost immediately from these stories. Only to be manipulated by the rash and childlike decisions of a broken hearted girl.
I did not see, for I had closed not only my eyes but also my heart, I was cold, stone and empty. Shut myself off from my past and created my own Hyde. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be broken beyond anything I could have known. But it helps us to grow. To know and realize ourselves; no pain no gain, without the fire the phoenix would not be reborn. This should be seen as a good thing. This change, this rebirth of the self, to begin at the beginning, and work to a new healthier end is a gift to be treasured, not dreaded. These walls hold my past. Now I just need to harness my future. And so I sit, quietly, a glass of freshly brewed ice red rose tea lulling lightly in hand. Gently at first, seemingly picking up decibels after only a few seconds then rising and falling with Grandma’s natural inflections. She had returned.
“Have you any memory of your great grandfather?”
“Only you and Aunt Emma’s stories Gram.”
“Do you recall his letting a shoe drop?”
“Yes, he would come home from work and following supper go to bed, and only one shoe would make a sound upon the floor.”
“Very good. Yes, he would always take his first shoe off and THUMP upon the floor…”
“But the other wouldn’t come, no crash at all, no sound.”
“Thank you Emma.”
“I was just saying Virginia.”
“Yes, that is very true the other shoe would not drop, yet in the parlor we were waiting for another thud.”
It drifts away, slowly, listlessly, out of earshot and back into the past where she shall dwell; crisp, clean, unforgotten, and unbroken or smeared. The moment gone. I open my eyes; tears gently swell in smiling eyes. A simple story one of many and yet it is more meaningful than any tale ever told, better and worse, complete and whole.
She has not left this house. It still recalls her care, love, her grace. This is home, where she cooked, cleaned, adored and lived. A connection can be found here, to my past, to my father’s, to my grandparents. It is not just her voice which fills this place but his soft when directed towards me, stern and angry towards his sons.
The connection to my past, both great and horrifying brings great comfort in a time of need. I may be broken now, but at least I have my healing fields to return to. There will be no more running from the world. I am coming home.