Packing
By
Peggy Fagan
It is a long lonely process, dismantling all
of the stuff of one's youth, the dusty old toys, the moth-eaten books, the
'Game of Life' well used, played constantly, giving us no idea that life is not
a game, but a long hard road with very few shortcuts to happiness. My father's
house is a house of memories, some good, more not so good. Getting him packed
up and moved from here seems like the right thing to do, but the cost is high.
The unpleasant echoes of violent arguments heard through sheet-rock walls still
frighten me, along with the ghostly clinking of ice in a glass in a darkened
room at night, forcing one to tiptoe past the door in the hopes of not being
observed. I can hear weeping, and I don't know whose it is, mine or Mom's. Her
life of sadness and disappointment saturate these walls, the air is thick with
despair and I find it hard to breathe. This packing must be done, and so we
forge ahead.
The always-creepy basement is full of
ghosts. My friend Joanie in her sleeping bag, shivering while Pat told those
scary stories about men with hooks for hands and monsters lurking outside
waiting maim and kill small children and teenagers in the most horrific manner.
Those stories caused a fear of the dark that has stayed with me for over 40
years. I run up the basement stairs still feeling that tingling between my
shoulder blades, still.
The
old pool table stands forlorn, pockets empty, cue sticks tip-less, chalk
useless. The bar, so cool with it’s own sink and Naugahyde covered swiveling
bar stools where we would spin ourselves far out into another galaxy...close
our eyes and spin, faster and faster until once stopped, the world revolved
around the us, the spinners, our disorientation and escape complete, if only
for a few moments.
Everything seems so small, so much
smaller than my memory recalls. Nannie's china chest, filled with irresistible,
untouchable trinkets: now the doors are open wide. Dad’s scary table saw that
sounded late at night: that night when hollering woke me to the blood stains
that trailed down the hallway as a neighbor tried to wipe them up. Daddy had an
accident, it's okay, go back to bed. OK.
The rest of the house filled with
treasures gathered from far away places. A few of them will go to new homes,
cherished family heirlooms. But what of the rest of the items so lovingly
collected and displayed? How does one get rid of things that were bought for
their beauty or novelty, the buyer on a gleeful holiday free of any inkling of
what the future holds? These items now sit on the dining room table, next to
the breakfront filled with the precious china and leaded crystal goblets that
made the table at the holidays so beautiful and festive. It is hard to look at
these things and not think about how much they
were loved, how dear they were, how much pleasure they brought to the one
gazing through the glass. But there is so much collected in a large house where
seven people lived their lives, lives truly of ‘quiet desperation'. Who wants
all of these things? What do they all mean? After all, they are just things.
But they meant something to the one who brought them home and they feel
important in someway. Maybe it is the memories stored away family visits. Those
memories remain after the things are gone but are somehow diminished when these
things are treated as if they have no value.
The attic is a magpie's nest of cards and
letters and photos saved over the course of almost 60 years. Tiny bridal shower
cards, with Mom's dearly familiar handwriting on the back detailing the gift
that came with them, wedding cards with sweet little flowers and glitter, baby
showers, birth announcements, kindergarten graduation certificates, the
beginnings of a family and a life with all of the hopes and dreams that
accompany young love. All of it saved in an attic that suffered invasions by
rapacious raccoons, squirrels and other chewing critters that ate their way
through most of that hope and left the remains piled in the corners. All of
those things so lovingly saved, so precious, so ruined, meaning nothing to the
one who was left behind. The sadness of sweeping up and throwing away these
things is overwhelming, the resharpened feeling of loss and heartache cutting
back through to the surface. Tears leave wet tracks down my cheeks
There is one box, untouched by the
marauders, just a shoe box, just a treasure chest of photos of childhood
friends, of letters written by young friends long forgotten, letters from the
once cherished, now estranged sister, from beloved grandparents written in that
fractured English that 50 years of living in America could not fix. Pages of
bad poetry, reading of longing and loss wishes unfulfilled, pages of teen-aged
angst that still feels all too familiar.
There is more, much more before this
project of packaging up 50 years of life will be complete. There is
no escaping the memories, they are there in every item picked up and wrapped :
sometimes they slip
in, causing a rueful smile, other times they are like a sucker punch to the
midsection, leaving a weeping wreck in their wake. But this job must be done;
this move must be made in this life, so close to over. It is a long process,
sad and hard, with few light moments in between.
New memories are made every day and
gradually replace the melancholy of the old, my life is truly happier now; the
good finally outweighs the bad. When this project is complete, and the move to
a new life is made, my father will settle in his new chair in front of his
beloved television, clinking glass in hand, with the few chosen mementos
carefully placed around him. And for him the old memories will slowly fade into
the background.
Hopefully for me, what remains of the past
will lose its sting of sadness and I will finally come to an accommodation with
my past, with my losses, and I will put the memories away in a quiet place, to
trouble me no more. I can only hope.
Copyright
2012©
Peggy Fagan
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