Recovered Memories

I stared up at my childhood home, taking in the once-pristine architecture that had fallen into disrepair. The front steps that led up to the wraparound porch creaked and wobbled as I made my way up to the faded yellow door. The dull brown paint peeled away from the warped wooden slats covering the house, and a film of grime coated both sides of the bay windows on either side of the door, obscuring the view into the rooms beyond.

Letting out a sigh, I steeled myself before shoving open the door. The old frame resisted and creaked and the ancient hinges squeaked as the door swung open. 

“Mom?” I called out, “I’m here.” 

No answer.

“Mom?”

I kicked the door shut, and it slammed back into place. The sound echoed throughout the high-ceilinged entry hall. I pulled off my jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the corner in the entryway. I moved into the living room, the mahogany pocket doors tucked neatly into the walls. White sheets covered most of the furniture, and moving boxes littered every available space. The stone fireplace sat against the opposite wall, cold and blackened from use. The yellowing curtains hung limp against the windows and dust covered the faded floral cushions on the bench below the windowsill. 

I ran my hand over the back of the gray, overstuffed couch as memories of driving my tiny trucks across the back of the bumpy cushions played in the back of my mind. My father’s recliner still sat in the corner by the fireplace, and I smiled as I recalled him falling asleep in the middle of the day, his arms folded across his broad chest and the television quietly running the golf channel in the background. Now, the furniture only gathered dust.

“Mom?” I said, louder this time. “You here?”

“In the attic!” My mom shouted back, her voice muffled as it carried through the narrow hallways and down the rickety staircase. 

I made my way up the stairs, each board groaning with every step. The fourth stair squealed when I put my weight on it, something that had kept me from sneaking out of the house as a kid but now was just another part of the house’s charm. 

As I made my way down the second floor landing toward the back of the house where the attic stairs nestled against the wall, I passed by my childhood room, and I couldn’t resist poking my head inside the door that had been left cracked. The room seemed exactly as I had left it. A full-sized bed surrounded in a thick oak bed frame sat directly below my window in the center of the outer wall. The blue and green bedspread my mom had bought me for my fifteenth birthday still covered gray bed sheets. Bookshelves sat against the right wall, filled with the books I hadn’t bothered to take with me when I moved out - books on dinosaurs, physics, and botany, of all things. Sports trophies and ribbons filled in the gaps of the bookshelves and lined my oversized dresser. On the opposite wall, posters of indie rock bands and celebrity crushes covered every inch of exposed plaster, framing the doors leading to my closet and small bathroom. 

As I looked around my room, I noticed something sticking out from underneath my bed. I pushed the door open and walked over to my bed. I sat down on the old mattress, and the springs protested at my grown-up body. Bending down, I grasped a small book between my fingers. I set it on my lap and ran my hand over the thick, leather cover. I smiled at the book - a photo album my father and I had started when I was barely old enough to hold a polaroid camera. I thought I had lost this years ago, after my father passed away. My mom and I had stopped looking for it after tearing apart the whole house twice, as well as my own apartment. Convinced it had been lost in one of my numerous moves over the years, I hadn’t bothered to look anymore. 

I flipped through the book, studying each faded polaroid stuck between the cellophane pages. Pictures of my dad and I at our first professional baseball game together, at the ice cream shop, in the backyard grilling burgers, and even one of him sleeping in his recliner. My father had gifted me the camera when I was five years old, and I loved it so much that I’d made a career out of it. Now, these pictures were all I had left of him.

A tear slid down my cheek as memories flooded into my mind of my father and I going to the park to take pictures of trees, ducks, the water fountain, and, sometimes, people. Those ones never made the album, though. Those pictures had been stashed into a shoebox that eventually became a portfolio that helped me get into college. They were also taken with a much higher quality camera. But these polaroids were my real treasures. The ones that captured the little moments: my mother’s laugh, my father’s boisterous smile, our happy family. 

“You okay, Sweetie?” 

I jumped at the sound of my mother’s voice from the doorway. I looked up at her as I wiped away tears from my cheeks. She had on a faded denim button up that she had tied at the waist and some light wash jeans, which were both caked in dust and cobwebs. She’d tied her curly, graying red hair up into a bandana, and errant strands stuck out at odd angles.

“Yeah,” I said, “Just thinking about dad.”

Her face softened, the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes smoothing out.

“Yeah, I get that way, too, sometimes,” she said, walking over to sit next to me. Then she looked at the album on my lap. “Where did you find that? I thought that was lost.”

“I did, too,” I replied, “But I found it under my bed.” 

I handed it to her so she could look through the pictures. She laughed out loud at an image of my father running away from my mother as she sprayed him with the garden hose.

“I remember this,” she said, pointing at the picture. “Oh, he made me so mad that day! He came up behind me and tickled me as I was watering the flowers!”

I nodded, smiling at the memory. I had just come out of the house when she had turned the garden hose on him. Back then, I never went anywhere without my camera, and I managed to get the perfect shot.

“He was such a jokester,” I said, choking up as an unexpected wave of sadness fell over me. My mom wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me tight.

“You were his favorite camera man,” she said. “He was so happy when he found out you got into art school.”

And he had been. He booked a trip to visit the college the night I received my acceptance letter, and he never missed a single event at school. Every showcase, parents’ weekend, and homecoming, my dad was there to cheer me on. 

“I never thought I’d see this again,” I said, gesturing at the album my mother now clutched to her thin body. 

“Well, maybe your father wanted to make sure you had it,” she said, placing her hand on my cheek. “He was so, so proud of you. And so am I.”

I leaned into her then, wrapping my arms around her and kissing her cheek.

“That camera was the greatest gift he ever gave me,” I said. And it was. I kept that camera with me to this day. It had a place of honor on a bookshelf in my office, next to a picture of my dad and me at my college graduation.

My mother and I sat in silence for a moment, and I could almost feel my dad there, too. 

“Well,” she said, placing the album on my bed, “I’ve only got a couple more boxes to bring down from the attic. Want to help me?”

I stood up with her.

“Sure,” I said, taking one last look at the album that started my entire life, and smiling for the man who had given me the inspiration. “Let’s go.”

I followed her out of my room, happiness swelling in my chest at the thought of having my memories, and my father, back.