For the first five years of my life I lived in a big red brick house on a busy street in a pocket of town rife with history and charm. It was a beautiful house loaded with character, its only downside the tiny, cramped kitchen. My mother was bitter until the day she died that when her marriage ended, so too did her time in that house.
I remember it in perfect detail: the veranda that hugged the front of the house, the green carpeted staircase just a few steps from the front door and the elaborate, dark wood banister I used to slide down. I remember the bright orange carpet in the den, the scalloped sink in the upstairs bathroom and the kitchen’s linoleum floor, the giant maple tree in the centre of the backyard and the swing that hung from one of its sturdy lower branches. In my mind I can still see every room, even the cellar, and the view from all the windows as clearly as though I had just been there yesterday.
A side street snaked its way behind our house and at our end of it stood a large beige two-story that overlooked the river below. My best friend lived there, a dark haired little boy two years my junior; an only child like me. His house was gigantic, full of toys, boasting things I’d never seen before – a pool table, a baby grand, a Jacuzzi bathtub. I loved it there.
Although I can picture our houses as clear as a bell my actual memories are fuzzy, blurred now by time and then, likely, by my parents’ divorce, but every now and then snippets come to me, rise to the surface of my mind like bubbles, resting just long enough for me to slip inside and revisit the past before they pop away.
I remember when his grandmother died – my friend’s, I mean – and how my mum and I walked around the corner to their house at dusk one night to celebrate her death. I was confused about the term ‘celebration’, thought of it as a party with a cake and balloons and goody bags, was shocked by the idea that we would celebrate something as sad as death. I remember my mum trying to explain that it wasn’t a party but instead a time to honour my friend’s grandmother, to celebrate a life lived; a time to join together in sending her spirit off as it entered the next phase of its journey. Although I really didn’t understand I sensed that I was going to be a part of something very special, something bigger than I was; something I would come to understand later, when I was older.
Us kids weren't allowed to play at the back of his house; the small patch of grass beyond the patio doors ended abruptly at a steep slope leading to an embankment at the river’s edge. That night was the only time I was ever allowed to climb down that slope and the prospect of being allowed to enter forbidden territory left me feeling giddy. Once I reached the bottom someone gave me a paper lunch bag, a few scoops of dirt supporting a small white candle inside. As the setting sun’s reflection rippled across the water my candle was lit and one by one, those of us who had gathered to celebrate the life of a woman whom I had never met bent over the river to set their lunch bag on its surface. I stood very still at the edge of the river and watched as my flickering lunch bag trailed behind the other castaways and floated gently downstream.
I remember looking over at my friend's mother as she stood silently and watched the lunch bags bob and weave across the water. She looked different to me. Her rich olive skin was pulled taught, her thick, dark brows furrowed, her eyes tired and teary. I remember slipping my hand into my mother’s then, weaving my fingers with hers, and as the last of the sun slipped beneath its blanket of clouds I thought to myself that the sight of those flickering lunch bags on the water was one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen.
35 Comments, Comment or Ping
Oh, my friend…you made me cry. Twice.
Once with laughter over the priceless Chuck Norris comment you just left me and once more over your poignant and beautiful words. Truly touching.
January 28th, 2008
Evocative – I can almost see the flickering lunch bags through your eyes…
January 28th, 2008
that was sweet, lady. if i wasn’t so manly i’d probably sniffle a little bit. but i didn’t, because i’m am amazingly manly. even this comment has back hair.
January 28th, 2008
I can see the image of those lights dancing on the water. Beautiful, and such a lovely way to show appreciation for someone’s life.
January 28th, 2008
And that, my friend, was one of the most beautiful things I have read in a long time.
January 28th, 2008
truly truly beautiful, i\’m so glad you posted it :)
January 28th, 2008
That was beautifully written. I almost felt as if I was standing on the bank watching.
January 28th, 2008
This is gorgeous. Your writing seems to be gathering strength every day, T. You put me right on that riverbank, watching glowing paper bags float downstream.
Yowsers, girl.
January 28th, 2008
Your post brought some of my memories to the surface. Beautiful post–thanks!
January 28th, 2008
and one of the most beautiful i’ve ever seen …
thank you
January 28th, 2008
This is a beautiful post. From start to finish, especially the finish.
I remember slipping my hand into my mother’s then, weaving my fingers with hers, and as the last of the sun slipped beneath its blanket of clouds I thought to myself that the sight of those flickering lunch bags on the water was one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen.
Just lovely.
January 28th, 2008
So lovely, mama. I find some of the celebrations of a life to be so profoundly moving, but it also makes me wonder at times why we wait.
January 28th, 2008
Just beautiful.
I think anyone with a chill in their heart should be referred to your blog because if you can’t make their heart warm and filled with emotion, no one can.
January 28th, 2008
such vivid, descriptive memories… childhood. nothing else has ever been quite like that. the memories I have of being little are so bright: like sunspots. all other memories are somehow less sharp-edged. lovely writing!
January 28th, 2008
You are such a terrific writer. Write a book or something, why don’t you? But whatever you do, don’t stop sharing your writing with us!
January 28th, 2008
wow, that was awesome. i feel like i had been there with you.
January 28th, 2008
Such prose my friend. Such lovely, lovely prose. Well done.
January 28th, 2008
i wonder if you and your friend ever spoke about it?
January 28th, 2008
gorgeous, K. just gorgeous.
January 28th, 2008
Beautiful. I can see the flickering dots of light on the water. And this is from a staffroom on the other side of the world.
(Yes, I know I should be writing things of Great Educational Import for my classes tomorrow. But I think I need to ease into it…. Is this wrong?)
By the way, did you find out the meaning of ‘root’ yet?
January 28th, 2008
Wow, I can just see those lights. And the image of your friend’s mom is so sweet and sad. Beautiful writing and story…
January 28th, 2008
honey, this was a truly haunting and lovely post.
January 29th, 2008
Your description took me right back to a tradition we had at Girl Scout camp. I would help the girls find twigs which we would lash together and we would put a birthday candle onto the little raft and light it and send it off into the lake on the last night of their camping weekend. Everyone made a wish and watched the tiny flames spread across the water. I can feel the cool dampness of the soil and smell the pine and cedar trees. Thanks. That’s a memory that has been buried for a long time.
January 29th, 2008
Gorgeous imagery.
The bags remind me of the luminary ceremony at the Relay for Life every year. Powerful stuff those little candles in fragile paper bags.
January 29th, 2008
Beautiful.
I have never seen this done before (although I feel like I have via the way you write). What a beautiful tribute to someone’s life, I’m wondering if this is a tradition among certain cultures?
January 29th, 2008
Beautiful, my friend.
January 29th, 2008
I can picture the house so clearly.
What a great memorial to the grandmother and a wonderful shared memory with your mother.
January 29th, 2008
Very lovely (are you, and) was this.
January 30th, 2008
You made me feel as though I was there, too.
January 30th, 2008
That was really beautiful. You have an amazing way of painting pictures with your words.
January 30th, 2008
I would love to be your child for one day. You tell the best stories! I always feel like I am there too.
January 30th, 2008
*sigh*
I really, REALLY love your writing….
January 31st, 2008
That is a beautiful memory.
January 31st, 2008
that was beautiful, k.
just absolutely beautiful.
i love the rich memories that you share.
January 31st, 2008
wow. This is phenomenal, you are quite the gifted pen.
February 5th, 2008
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