It is my my earliest memory; a snapshot, rather than a story, really. I was not quite three. I sat on the floor in the dimly-lit living room in my grandparent’s house; captivated by a silhouette, illuminated by the roaring fire. It was my granddad, sitting in a wheelchair, just days from death. On the hearth was a cut-glass snifter of brandy that would never be consumed. I tasted the mood - a wearied resignation; the fight was over, all that remained was waiting. And with it came calmness.
My first day of school; scared about leaving the umbrella of safety that my parents brought, even for just a few hours. I felt infinitely smaller and vulnerable in the world that day. My parents and I trod across the worn pavement, towards the intimidating front steps. En-route we passed by an old, low-riding car. Standing next to it - Mr. Van, with his smiling, lined face and hunched, sturdy stance.
He was not only my “adopted Grandfather”, but also Ute Pass Elementary’s Grandpa. His wife would die a few years later, and yet, he would come to school every day. Telling kids to smile and bestowing bear hugs to under the weather elementary schoolers. An eternal second-grader.
He opened his trunk, revealing an abundance of stuffed animals. After selecting a sweet looking white teddy bear with a red-velvet bow, and handed her to me. She was christened Sweet Beary. Amazing how much courage can be given to a scared kindergartner in seconds
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Excitement. Christmas time was finally here. Snow drifts and icy roads were abundant in the Connecticut woods. All of the family was there, plus a swarm of friends. A whirl-wind of activities leading up to Christmas Eve rushed around. Chaotic Solstice Party. Brightly burning Yule Log wrapped in ribbons, sending wishes for the new year curling into the sky. A thousand colorful pinpricks of light on the Christmas tree. Candles in paper bags lining the snowy driveway. Warm light spilling out of the windows. A hundred euphoric faces strewn throughout the house. Sparkling beverages in plastic cups. Blazing, crackling fires. Deep green garlands. Wrapped boxes under the tree. Melted snow puddling in the foyer. And around and around and around. I attached myself to my two cousins, my favorite people in the entire world. I thought that they were all anyone should ever aspire to be. Smart, funny, tolerant, artistic, pretty, and they were family.
At last I sat at the coffee table in front of a dying fire, writing Santa. I carefully arranged a plate of cookies, carrots for the hard-working reindeer, and set down a glass of milk. I went to bed that night full of happiness, love, expectation, and contented fatigue. The down covers welcomed me as I climbed into bed to stare at the white, peaked ceiling.
I was ten years old, standing stock still, staring at the patch of orange lilies on the slope. A madly racing train of thoughts rushed through my head. My grandfather died six years ago, why did they wait this long to have the memorial service? I hate it when people smile through their tears, it feels like a lie. I wish I had actually known him. Why lilies? Will I remember the words to the 23 Psalm when I am supposed to say it? I could feel the waves of sadness and eagerness to share stories roll in waves towards the small box set into the ground. How could an entire life be condensed into such a small cube of dust? My eyes lifted the words, “The tide may erase our footprints, but only for a moment, for having walked there once, we remain always.” off of the fancy paper. My mom stood grasping my shoulder tightly in her hand, as if somehow comforting me would erase her own pain.
Hours later I sat in my room while all the guests laughed through the drops sliding down their faces. I perched on the bed, my knees to my chest, fiddling with my skirt. I hated skirts. Studying a knot in the pine wall, I sobbed. I cried because I wished I had something to cry about. I was supposed to mourn like the rest of them, for what? I only had others’ memories. There in Lake Placid, in this house that he designed, surrounded by furniture he had created, observing the people that had loved him, I still did not know who he was.
The summer before sixth grade. I sat with Julia, nestled in the grass in her yard. Our parents seated on the deck, talking. We plucked dandelions, and watched the breeze tug at our wishes until they melted into the sky. We braided grass, discussed philosophies - and laughed. Letting the world hear how carefree we are. The burdens they see forced upon us in their minds were not there in that fading, evening light. We see each others hearts, this is what family is.
The cold morning air burned my cheeks as tears ran down my face. My backpack felt as if the entire universe had been stuffed inside. Our beautiful husky, Greta, lay weakly on the lawn. A dog bed was spread invitingly on the grass, yet she lay on the frost - weary with cancer. I bent down and worked my fingers into the luxurious ruff at her neck and smiled through my tears at her glazed eyes. Whispering, “Catch a rabbit for me in heaven,” I finally forgave her for her misdeed many years ago.
When I was 5, I moved a piece of plywood away from the side of the house, exposing a bunny hidden within. Greta killed it in front of me. I had never let it dissolve out of my memory.
My backpack slid its weight onto my shoulders. Those deep pools of eyes said that she felt guilty, but knew that she wanted to leave. I kissed her on the nose and straighten up as my dad came outside, knowing that the next time I saw her, she would be only snowy ash.
The three of us stood together and watched the sunset wash over the prairie through our glistening lashes. Greta’s ashes drifted into the wind, dispersing into the landscape she loved like nothing else. Out of my horn drifted the notes growing from love that families have cultivated for an eternity. We listened as the petals of music whispered over the shadowy plains.
Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman
