42
I am convinced that my days are paying homage to my mother and her parents.
Every night, after working diligently, I wander through the woods and find a place to watch the dusk settle in, to have a wonderful stare down with God as the sun dies.
Though I do not know what I’m looking for, I am finally looking.
And up in the darkening sky, or in the familiar forest, I will find my answers.
During the days, I purge the house.
Strip it down to its bones.
Repaint everything, every inch.
Light blue for the kitchen and white for the living room.
Coat after coat, for all the days to follow.
Let it shine and beat on for the rest of my life, and longer.
Let the walls breathe again.
The power of the brush is in my hands.
Even the first of us painted the walls of dark caves long ago.
On hands and knees, I scrub and dig into the very roots of the place.
My dirty nails clean the cracks, and though I am focused, the hours pass in a blur; before I know it days pass.
There’s no clock to be found except the one above the stove that has long since given up.
Those wooden hands of time grew tired.
In determination, I scrape out the cupboards and reset the walkway with fresh boards.
I flush the carpet completely, vacuuming and fanning the water.
Every second is a rebirth.
Every morning, I wake up with a purpose, with a clear and decisive aim to commit myself to the work , to be set right again, believing if I can make the house new, then new will be my soul.
So, I scratch and I clean.
And finally, in the quiet evenings, I sit in Grandpa’s chair and have a few beers.
I stare off, far off into the oblivion walls and try to have conversations.
I think back on all the holidays that we celebrated in this very room.
We came here every Easter.
I remember Grandpa’s big old grin and his hand wringing as he watched me in my pajamas scooting all over the house in search of colorful eggs.
I remember that effortless joy.
I remember the day in the woods where he led me along a path and taught me how to shoot a bow.
I remember the day we built a fort and afterwards he sat me down and we had lunch meat sandwiches while he talked about the war and then let me have a sip of his beer.
Grandpa was well through his eighties and still a tough, competitive man.
He had plenty of wisdom to pass on.
I always looked up to my elders with adoration, but Grandpa Bill and Grandma Ruby were special.
They could have told me anything and I would have believed them, and told me they did.
Oh Grandma, if I could see you now.
If we could talk about it all.
Her feet had these big old bunions on the side of them that swelled up to near tennis balls, and I always found it miraculous that she stayed walking at all.
She was, along with my mother, the kindest woman to ever walk the Earth.
Grandpa would put baseball on the television and Grandma would squeeze me tight to her body.
She always wore delightful sweaters and was so warm.
Plenty of fat on her bones, and so undeniably, overflowing with love.
Grandma Ruby, what would we talk about now? What would you tell me?
There are things I think you should know.
Would you hold me as you once did? I miss your smile in the harsh days of winter.
You had old, weathered teeth, but I didn’t care.
You never smoked and you never drank.
You were the best cook in the world, and God, were you holy.
I remember one walk most of all.
My mother and grandma were moving slowly, meandering on for what seemed like the length of the continent as I mindlessly played with a football, throwing it high into the sky to myself.
I remember them talking about my father, who rarely came on the visits.
I can’t remember what they said exactly, but it was about him.
I remember Grandma was sad, and I wondered why.
They stopped on the path and they hugged there, the woods framing them in a divine sort of picture.
I’ve never forgotten that image.
Years later, I can only imagine sweet Grandma Ruby was imploring my mother to remain steadfast.
To channel the grace of God and choose love.
Grandma, I know you were the same, and yes, you died a saint, while the rest of the creatures ran on.
I’ve never seen the light of the world quite the way you did, and to this day I wish I could.
You either believe it or you don’t.
In the October evening I rock back and forth in my grandfather’s chair and realize I am almost in tears thinking of it all.
I carry on like this for over two weeks.
Day in, day out.
Two weeks, and the house is nearly finished.
All around me it is awake and thriving once more.
As for me, I’m in my grandfather’s chair again, my nighttime ritual. I am surrounded by the visions of my mother and her parents, reaching out and whispering. I look over to my grandma’s old maroon lace pillow on the couch, feeling lonesome. It hasn’t quite done the trick, all this.
The place is alive and clean, but I remain something of a mess. I lie down on the carpet, close my eyes and I dream. When I was only a child, Mom would say.
“Breathe Cash, just breathe.”