Something Lost, Found

A Sort-of Memoir Post, plus a poem

sometimes memories come flooding back like a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors

I am up early this morning, stirred out of bed by Bonnie’s restless pleas. We stepped out into the magic light of pre-dawn—that time when each molecule of the atmosphere carries a glow of its own, a thousand bits of luminosity floating in the air, settling on my skin, moistening my hair—light in the throes of birth, the beginnings of golden grays outlining the horizon. Bonnie does not like the dewy grass, the soft drizzle thickening her fur, so we are back inside quickly, wrapped up against the morning chill in a plush throw, warm mug steaming on my desk. From my chair, I can hear the quiet rumble of traffic, the wind gently stirring the backyard maples, the steady ticking of the clock keeping time.

Time. That’s what this post is about. I am thinking about what makes a person—all the love and pain and experiences that collide and crescendo into a life, culminate into a person… me.

To listen to this post (and an ambulance siren, the loud whistle of a train, plus Bon’s low snoring in the background—remind me to close the window next time I record my posts!):

Years ago, in the early days of blogging, I wrote with abandon about my formative years—growing up with an alcoholic parent, in poverty and love, governed by the dictates of a fundamentalist, cultic kind of faith. I was writing to understand myself, to find some seed of worthiness inside of me. This did not come without cost. I was sharing shared experiences, maybe not so delicately.

Ann Lamott famously said, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

But this kind of cavalier attitude hurt some people I love, and the damage still echoes through the hills and valleys of my life. “You have to write the story of your life,” one of my editors once told me. But all I could say was, “It’s not the right time yet.”

Now, with the soft distance of many more years behind me, looking back feels more like an exercise in love—for my young self, my family, those who were on the same herky-jerky journey alongside me.

Sometimes, life offers gifts in the form of sorrows.

still singing about the beauty of this life

Her mother died. Having recently lost my father, and overwhelmed by memories of the ways this gentlewoman had mothered me, I sent a card that carried all my love and young-girl gratitude. We hadn’t seen each other in twenty-five years. This person who was once in my life on the daily—whose house was more a home to me than my own—where I was fed and embraced and cared for. She was a sister to me, though I didn’t know to name it that at the time.

A pause here, to ask, “why?” Why do we let go of such people? The ones with the beautiful hearts who held our own with such tender care? Time and time again in my life I have let them slip away—disappeared by time and circumstance, magicked away simply because life took us different directions.

When I feel around in my store of memories, I know there are many answers to that question—as various and mysterious as the hearts who carry them. But I wonder—do we lose them for a season so we can grow in a new way? Like a seed bursting out of her hard shell? So that we may find them again later, when the lovely patina of time covers the harsh shine of so many mistakes, so many poor choices, so much sadness –and lends the beauty that can only belong to ghosts—silvery, shimmery, mist like memories seen in the light of the larger context of where we are now.

And when you hug her neck after twenty-five years apart and her body shakes with unshed tears … it’s like you blinked and no time has passed at all. You are in her mother’s kitchen at Christmas, helping make galettes (well, maybe only sampling them), the room filled with a sweet honey scent. For a brief second, your heart wanders and wonders, “What if…?” And, “If only I hadn’t …” and “If only we hadn’t…” and “If only, if only, if only…” But in the blink of an eye you come back to yourself and you marvel at all the ways you have changed, all the ways she has changed—even though you haven’t changed at all. You pick up the conversation of twenty-five years ago and you can still talk about the boys you loved, and what her brother is doing, and how so many simple choices damaged you.

And you say a prayer of thanks to all that is Holy because you know it was the holy hand of God that held you through her love, through friendship. And you promise yourself—this time, this time you will not lose her.

You will never lose her again.

A poem for you:

Ghosts

the sun
hides her face
this morning but

I am lit
from within by
memories
of you

long summer
days, swimming—
our young bodies
slim and gangly, still
growing
into ourselves

hours sunbathing,
scent of cocoa butter
making the image
slippery—your olive
skin ripening
into a burnished copper,
my pale face pink
and freckled

baloney sandwiches
in the kitchen, towels
wrapped around slender
waists and hips. we wrote
the names of our crushes
in mustard on white
bread

you—lip-syncing all Rick
Springfield’s songs on
car port stage, every mannerism
duplicated to perfection

painting our nails
every color on
the palette, MTV reigned
and Casey’s top 40
our Sunday
sermon, the liturgy
of the days

how could we know?
what life would offer
us? brokenness and
beauty and these children
from our own bodies?

time stops, when I look
into your face.  something
lost, found. and at the end
of the weekend, we step
back into these old
bodies, carrying
a promise, carrying
a memory of the young
girls we are inside

still.