Boxed-Up Memories

I was finally there after a whole year; a year that seemed like a millennium, every month a century, and every minute a decade. As I faced the house which once was my home, I could catch a glimpse of the lost souls in the window pane as the rays from the rising sun dawned upon it. It rose to spread the rays of hope but soon it will be dusk again.

I took my eyes off of the house and gazed at the front yard. The water fountain was filled with murky, green liquid that was slowly dripping from the large crack near the upper base. I remember her running to the birds sitting on the pedestal of this small water fountain…trying to catch them in her arms, but they would fly away in an instant. The birds fled from her just like life.

A few yards away from the fountain, stood the myrtle tree with its branches and stems in prostration; the absence of the pearly white flowers enshrouded it in a certain inexplicable morbidity. Were the dry trunk and yellow leaves bowing down to fate for eternity or was the myrtle tree preparing for an ostentatious show of grandiose beauty broached by spring. At least there was hope of new flowers and green leaves for my myrtle tree, but there was no hope of a blossoming flower for my existence.

As I stood mused in memories of the past, a gentle zephyr brought me back to the present. The swing still hung from the upper right branch of the tree and was moving back and forth with the subtle gusts of wind. Just like it used to move when she would sit in it and ask to be pushed while singing:

"Come, little leaves,
Said the wind one day.
Come down to the meadow
And we shall play.
Put on your dresses
Of red and gold,
For summer is past
And the days grow cold."

I could still see the faded brown imprints of her fingers on the right hand rope. The melted chocolate in her hand wasn’t enough to drive her home and to the sink; she just held onto the rope tightly as I tried to pull her down from the swing and take her inside. “No just a little longer.” “Honey your hands are dirty, your clothes will get sticky.” I could hear my own voice but who was I addressing? There was no princess in the swing; just an ant crawling on the wooden board trying to find its way to the ground.

The morbidly peaceful ambience sent shivers to my emaciated body. I walked slowly towards the porch; each step followed by the creaking of wooden boards. The keys to the house were clenched in my fist; as I opened my fist and let the keys dangle in my hand, the jingling keys were spontaneously in sync with the wind chimes hanging on the far corner of the porch.

I was about to unlock the treasure of memories and confront the loss that I had so often denied not just in reality, but also in my dreams. Many a night I had awakened to find her standing next to the bed post yearning for my embrace. I would extend my arms to embrace her…to provide her with the warmth of my affection, to carry her into the haven of motherly love, only to discover the chains of solitude embracing me in return.

I leaned against the door and shoved it open with the weight of my misery. The empty walls, bare floor, and vacant rooms were mocking me as I stood there dumbfounded. As promised, he had moved out all the furniture, paintings, decorations, and rugs. I was here to remove her belongings. The light and warmth of the sun were seeping through the windows…drenching the lifeless edifice with false traces of life. My feet felt glued to the floor as I turned around in a circle to absorb and breathe in the calamity that the house and I had endured.

I could see the doorknob of her room before even climbing up the stairs. The glossy red imprints of her hand decorated the wall leading to the second floor. The imprints from her first birthday seemed like that of a doll’s hands; small, slender fingers barely coming out of the palms. The next two impressions were remarkably larger than the first. I had captured her growth in the bricked walls and paint. I caressed my fingers over the fifth print and moved forward to touch the next one but there were no further glossy red prints; there was only the white paint on the wall reflecting absence of colors of life.

I stood before her room; as I placed my trembling hands on the knob of the door, I felt a sudden chill channel. The door opened up with a creaking sound as if it had been shut for ages. Both windows were still sealed with the wooden boards. It was dark in the room but I could see everything with a peculiar clarity; peculiar because I saw her standing in the corner for a brief moment. Her scent was diluted by the humidity but I could still breathe in her faded presence. I took a deep breath and waited as long as I could before letting her scent escape.

I had packed her life into boxes, but never had the courage to do away with her belongings. The brownish-red stains were still visible; those stains were eternalized not only as crusty spots on the soft, pink carpet, but also in my life. The glow in the dark stars and moon were glowing on the ceiling as they used to at night when she would go to bed. A thin layer of dust covered the boxes that were stacked in the corner. I lifted up two boxes and rushed downstairs and out to the car. One by one, I had piled up all the boxes in the car.

I went in for the last time to her room to make sure nothing was left behind out of neglect, nothing abandoned, nothing forgotten; as I stood in the empty room, I realized it had never been more full of her. I could still smell her scent, hear her laughter, feel her warmth, see her running towards me with open arms, and taste her lips as she would kiss me. Was I deserting her by doing away with her belongings? Though her presence felt much more encapsulating in her room, she will travel with me wherever I go.

I backed out from the driveway with the boxed up memories emanating nostalgia within me. These souvenirs of the past will serve as my perpetual companion for the future. A life to live with a death to mourn… May we both rest in peace.