Lost and Found
When we suffer the loss of a loved one we grieve, often
retreating to memories of moments in time; the sound of a whistler on an empty
snowy street in Greenwich Village in the early morning hours; turning a corner
in Paris to see the Eiffel Tower lit with thousands of sparking bulbs as the
sun set; watching our son brave the ocean waves for the first time, watching
our daughter in awe at the birth of five tiny kittens under our dresser. Moving
from a house called “home” for 37 years has reopened older worlds of loss but
also of laughter, memories of our Christmas ritual of cheese, salami, chips and
monopoly with the dog bent on resting atop the game board, displacing the
carefully placed houses and game tokens.
As I packed each book or painting, making decisions to keep
some in a downsized apartment, pack some for Florida , donate the rest, I often found
myself reliving the experiences attached to each. This home has been witness to all our
transitions: children leaving home, sometimes returning after a change of job
or boyfriend, or school; rooms changed from bedrooms to dens or home offices;
CD’s replacing dozens of albums of music; basement rooms mostly abandoned and
empty.
By the time I checked the house a final time before leaving
for Florida ,
it was a shell of its former self; bookshelves empty, kitchen counters
uncluttered and bare, walls devoid of pictures and tapestries and their
memories, closets empty but for random hangers.
Two days later, after a long train ride down the East coast,
I reclaimed my car and drove through warm Florida
towns to my Condo apartment in St.
Petersburg .
What a welcome! Here was my other
home base, one acquired 15 years ago and fully furnished by Ben and me to
reflect our changing status as a two-some; shared office and guest room, photos
and albums open and waiting to be scanned again, filling memories. I moved through the familiar rooms, shelves
filled with books most recently read, paintings and art work purchased only
within the past decade, I came across a sketch of a Spanish style house Ben had
drawn sitting on the grass of our favorite Bayou, watching birds swoop and dive
for dinner. I have returned there as
well remembering past visits.
I have revisited the beach again, able finally to walk with
comfort and certainty, watching the tide tease the many seabirds with its foam
and fragments of shells. There is a bell
hanging on the deck of the beach patio.
It is, by tradition, rung each evening by a volunteer to signal the end
of the day, sending the birds home to dinner.
Ben was recruited one day to be the toller of the bell, and more
recently, after his passing, Zackary, our grandson was visiting. I asked the women in charge of this daily
tradition if he could have the honor that day, and like his much loved Poppy,
he rang the bell with energy and gusto.
This second home, our joint sharing of time within its walls
and on its nearby waterways, has embraced me, welcomed me into its midst. I
feel in balance again, centered and home within myself and my memories.
