A Pile of Junk

Memories are like popcorn kernels. When one starts to pop the others soon follow. I returned to the bar where you and I met years ago. All that I shut out started to return. You sat in your plate of food that night. You made me laugh and feel something had I forgotten to do. I had thought you had a gift from that time on I wanted to know you.

Often I wonder if all the bad outweighed the good? To this day I’m not so sure. I still recall the day in your mother’s back yard; the water battle between your nephews and niece reflecting the special bond that you and I had. We laughed, didn’t we?

When you see a junkyard, do you think about that day? Do I ever cross your mind? Although the August heat was intolerable, we decided to take a trip to the junkyard. A long argument stemmed from my jealousy. You made a promise to keep me forever, but I had doubts about the truth.

We reached the junkyard and started to climb the long steep hill. A solemn wall of silence rose between us. We had found one more way to remain friends. I recall quite clearly, the many layers of cars piled one on top of another. Perhaps, a foresight to what the future held for us. A future of piled up memories stacked in layers along the back corners of our minds. Some might only see the junk, but others, a precious treasure. Sometimes I dwell upon them and wonder what we could have done differently. We worked well together, yanking, pulling and dragging along the parts that you would use to rebuild your car. You forgot to bring your Philips screwdriver and I reminded you every step of the way. I looked beyond all the dirt, grim and filth that was glued to us. You were so much taller than I, but that didn’t matter, I found a way to bring you down to my level with just a smile. Our eyes locked. Your smile, real and natural, helped me to believe that God did exist. He, in his kindness and generosity, allowed our paths to cross. In that one moment, happy and content, I thought I had found home with you.

For what it is worth, you were my best friend and I loved you. Feelings do change. We all change. Feelings, like raindrops, slowly start to fade when the sun comes out. I no longer dwell inside a shallow hole, looking out. You told me that I was the most important person to you next to your parents. But the words and promises you made did not exist. I did not mean a damn thing to you. I was a part of your life that was so simple to cast away. The same as the parts you tossed away from your car, the parts you didn’t need anymore. You went about your life, discarded me and replaced me with another. Not once ever looking back. You left me with nothing more than a pile junk to sort though. All the energy expended on you now had no place to go.

Someone wise said, "One door shuts and another one opens."

I had two choices. Either let what had taken root wither away or do some serious soul searching. What I did was to make myself whole again. I found that the dark tunnel wasn’t so dark. Friends and family tried to light the way, but I had to do this on my own. What I did find along the way saved my life.

Lost and confused, I went to my room. I kicked the end of my bedpost and out flew a pile of papers. Years before I met you, I packed away and forgot about that story. I picked it up and began reading. Each word reminded me that I had a dream of my own; a dream that didn’t involve you.
In the end, I finally stood on my own. I found myself. Yes I miss you. There isn’t a place where we have gone that your memory doesn’t come alive. However, I no longer need you or anyone else to make me happy.

Perhaps in the past, we reflected upon who we were and who we would become. I chose to change the bad and made it better. I went to that place in my heart that I locked away and buried underneath a pile of junk. I took what I needed to enrich my life and now I continue onward, but without you.

House For Sale

House for Sale

      The essence of a house is weighed by the soul of a human. A house beats. The pieces of wood, metal and stone transform into a being.

       A for sale sign dangles. The wind swings it to and fro. Other houses crowd in, but one stands out. White siding and a green porch. Paint faded by the seasons, bubbled and flaking.

        The cars and people who pass by – they don’t see it as a home.

     If you listen. The walls talk. They come alive with their previous owner’s story. Most people see the exterior and don’t bother to wander in. What they don’t understand is the spirit of the past always latches on to the framework. It carries like electric impulses though every nook, keeping it warm. 

It all happened here. The music, the laughter. The family. The pride hung like a banner. That laughter echoed beneath a floorboard. At one time, a Nunny and a Pap. They moved in at the cornerstone of their marriage. They had a son and daughter. The birth of a family would bind them for one lifetime. Yet as they grew, the sounds of high-pitched crying commenced. All it took was a simple trip down a short hallway.

    Music and dance are the essence of harmony. Every Sunday morning, the owner starts coffee. The children come down to greet the sounds of polka. And dancing. The “one, two, three” would commence until all five grandchildren had their lesson.

      Birthdays and parties filled that house. And every Christmas, the feast of the seven fishes – a celebration of tradition that traveled from the old country. Despite 12 inches of snow, the warmth started at the front door.

     The kids headed straight to the tree, decoding whether stacked gifts were toys or clothes. Adults went to the kitchen. Sea salt and frying fish overpowered the pine and mulberry candle. In the oblong kitchen – hardly any room to move – they rarely had an accident.

Pap claimed the shrimp station. The grandkids would wait until he stepped away from the half-full plate.        When he returned, a single shrimp remained. “Keep it up, and there will not be any for supper.” Yet

 the grandchildren already knew two other boxes where in the freezer.

The man at the head of the table was a regal fellow. The glue that bonded them.

     “Outlaw,” he called her. “How many pounds of spaghetti did you make this year?”

     In previous years, an over-abundance. She said she would write a note to remind herself next year. Yet, she would forget where she placed the note. This time, she laughed. It bubbled so that she shook her whole body.

     Twelve Days of Christmas broke out. Every year, the oldest granddaughter would sing off key. They expected it, but laughed anyway.The feast ended eventually, and the house would miss it. Waiting for their return. It never came. A sadness stirred. The couple would have 40 years until death claimed Pap. Silence only in the stillness.But no matter how many times she left, she always came back. Until she didn’t. And the pipes grew cold and longed for the polka. The walls grew stale, even after the family returned to view their lives through a spectacle of pictures.

       The home turns into a house, awaiting a friend to breathe in new life.

Writing has been my greatest outlet. It has saved my life countless times. It has been a journey and this blog is where I decided to share it all.