Writing about the past is an interesting thing. I’m dredging up sensations that at one time consumed me, but are now wispy and elusive, trapped in the recesses of my mind. I close my eyes, and try to put myself there, digging up tiny candy-coated details. I get lost in thought, and find myself immersed, wading through memories as thick and sweet as raw honey.
Revisiting the past is like seeing ghosts. Of people I’ve loved and lost along the way. Of the people that I still have, still love, but are different than they used to be. And of myself.
I see, and for a little while, maybe even become that girl I used to be, surrounded by the many people who shaped me into who I’ve become, hearing the fragile rhythms of my life in a song that’s unfinished. And then I open my eyes, and they’re gone, and here I sit, pen in hand.
The world changes and we do too. It’s unavoidable. Most people’s lives are filled with inescapable responsibility. Work. Home. Deadlines. Bills.
The familiar paths of our lives becoming well-worn, and we struggle to ensure those paths don’t deepen into the dreaded ruts we’ve all heard about. We fill our lives with things and people we love, and maybe even spice things up with an adventure here and there.
Most of the time, I skip merrily along my path, waving and stopping to talk awhile to the people I meet along the way. But I have my days, just like everyone else. There was a day last week when I was losing my battle against all things hum drum, so I decided to run home to my parents.
After work, I stopped at my parents’ house and as soon as I opened the door, my bad mood began to evaporate, and the delicious smells coming from my mom’s kitchen made my mouth water. Before I’d even shut the door I was hugged twice by Hannah and Emily. As a greeting, that’s hard to beat.
Did I mention that I’m an aunt to three girls? Michaela, Hannah, and Emily. They’re beautiful. They’re smart. They’re amazing. They own my heart.
Mickey’s the cool one. In her, I see elements of a girl I always wished I could be. Because if there’s one thing I’m not, unfortunately, it’s cool. Hannah, I know inside and out, because she’s so much like me (sorry Hannah, but you are). And little Emmy, (who’s not so little now, at a whopping eleven years old) is a whirlwind. She’s wise beyond her years, and loves stories as much as I do. She’s been my best pen pal to date.
So when I enter mom and dad’s house, I’m flanked by Hannah and Emmy, chattering happily about their day, and how they’re helping my mom cook. Mom wants to feed me, and asks if I’ll be staying for supper, Dad is yelling for me to come in the living room, so I can talk to him.
Feeling wanted and loved, I pass up the offer of food, and plop down on the couch in the living room, glad that my mom already has help in the kitchen. Talking I’m good at. Cooking, not so much.
Hannah follows me with a bowl full of potatoes, and a knife. “Hannah, you’re peeling the potatoes?” I ask. “Good, you can take over that job!” Hmmm… maybe getting older does have its perks. My mom knows that I hate to cook, but I’ve never been able to escape that dreaded task. Even now, even if I bring a dish to one of her dinners, I still somehow find myself with a knife in one hand and a potato in the other.
Dad nods toward Hannah. “Look Keli. She peels like you do. Backward.”
Oh no. I look over and sure enough, Hannah holds the knife awkwardly in her hand. She swipes away the peel, the blade narrowly missing her thumb. “Watch your fingers, Hannah. Make sure you keep your thumb out of the way,” I say this with experience. If I could, I’d show her the proper way to peel, but honestly I don’t really know how. No matter how many times my mom showed me, I always ended up doing it the wrong way. Poor Hannah. Just like me.
The weight of my day hasn’t completely left me, and I sink back in the cushions, hoping to relax.
“Sit up Keli,” I hear Emmy’s voice in my ear. I move forward and feel the brush run through my hair. Emily loves to play with my hair, and you won’t hear me complaining. The extent of my hairstyling knowledge involves a brush and ponytail holder.
She stands behind me and brushes a while, the bristles soothing against my scalp. She pulls it over to the side and begins to braid. When she’s finished, she gets in front of me to admire her handiwork. “You look so pretty”, she smiles. “Hannah, look how pretty she looks!”
We sit, facing each other on the couch, and she examines my face. She remarks on my many freckles, and asks me about the scar on my right eyebrow. Apparently my clumsiness began at a young age. I tell her the story about how I knocked a sewing machine on my head when I was a toddler, even though I know I’ve told her before.
“I like to think it makes me look mean,” I tease her. “Like I’ve been in a knife fight. Does it make me look scary?”
She examines me closely, and I can see the wheels turning behind those beautiful chocolate brown eyes of hers. She lightly runs her finger across my eyebrow, and shakes her head. “No. You’re too pretty to be scary. And you smile too much.”
Wow! You can’t buy compliments like that. I’m humbled by the sincerity I see in Emmy’s face, and when she holds up her cell phone and tells me she wants to take my picture, of course I follow her outside. I would deny her nothing at this point.
She makes me feel like a kid playing dress-up. I’m her model, and she tells me to stand here, sit there, put your hand this way, and cross your legs that way. She’s not quite bossy, but assertive, and strong, like my mom. I draw the line at straddling my dad’s four-wheeler. I am in a dress after all. “Sit sideways then,” she orders. “Yes ma’am,” I reply.
I leave Mom and Dad’s with a smile on my face, mom’s homemade macaroni and cheese in tow, and my hair styled like a Cherokee princess. I feel beautiful and loved thanks to an eleven year old girl, and a day that I’d wished were over, has now become precious.
I hope years down the road, when Emily is thinking back on her childhood, that she remembers that day, and knows how special she made me feel, just by being herself. And I know, even if by that time I’ve become a ghost of my former self, that I’ll still remember a lesson she reminded me of. A kind gesture, and a kind word, can make all the difference in the world.