Vacant Memories...
The rooms are empty. They have been for awhile now. But once they were filled with the coziness of a large family gathering often; laughing, eating home-cooked comfort food, talking and telling stories of times gone by. It once housed 7 children and later some of their children as the years went on. It gathered friends and loved ones around the table or near the wood stove comfortably.
Now it is just a building, empty of the very things that made it's memories so precious. It no
longer has the Grandfather bringing in loads of firewood to keep the stove stoked through the night. Nor does it hear the banging of a hammer as that same man lovingly adds to his home. It doesn't smell of woodsmoke or baked beans. Grandma's Bible is not open on the table. Her piano is not in the corner waiting to be played. The books that were collected, but each one of them read, do not fill the handmade built in shelves of the front bedroom anymore.
The gingham curtains still hang. They tell the story of Saturday morning pancakes topped with real Maple syrup and a cup of hot Postum. They remind me of early morning raspberries from the garden that occasionally topped those pancakes and the home-whipped Dream Whip from the box. Hmmm. But mostly they tell the story of the woman in the kitchen; round and embracing, loving and yet firm.Grandma and I had a special connection. I don't know if she saw something of herself in me or if I just saw so much of who I wanted to be in her. As I grew older and my family moved away our visits were fewer. I loved running up the porch and banging the knocker on the door. It was only seconds before I would hear, "Who is it?" in her classic-as-only-Grandma-can-do-high-pitched-sing-songy
voice. While I waited for the door to open several (at least 4 to 6) cats would brush up against my legs meowing a welcome of their own. Then the door would open and I would enter the haven. I was well loved as a child; mommy's little girl. Yet still, the embrace of my Grandmother and the security of those four walls is unexplainable.
Goodbyes were another story. The pang in my stomach when Grandma would remind me as I got older and we parted, "Until we meet again, whether heaven or earth", as she would look me squarely in the eyes; I can still feel it. I knew she was talking of another home where we would meet and yet I disliked thinking ahead to what I knew would one day come. Then in just what seemed so short a time she was lying so still near death's door and the family was preparing to say their final goodbyes. As I said mine, I stroked her silvery white hair so soft and shiny. I gently touched her aged cheek that was so smooth, kissed her, and leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Sleep sweet in Jesus, Grandma, until we meet again." That was 10 years ago.
I recently learned that the farm is back on the market. The photos look as if Grandma and Grandpa just moved out. The past of yesterday still reflects in today and holds hope for the future. The house is empty and yet the memories are full.
