Recollections

Click!

You put on the turning signal and veer your car right onto Riverock Lane. As you drive by the various houses on the street, you excitedly single out a  few, saying quietly, “Oh! Olivia's house! I remember when we – and Lisa’s!” You fondly remember the happy times when you and your friends would go over to each other’s houses for milk and cookies, a movie marathon, or sometimes a slumber party.

Today is one of your few days off from work. Your parents moved to a nursing home about a year ago and had given the house to you. You have been to visit them, but you haven’t found any spare time to see your childhood home. You either kept forgetting or were weighed down with work. So, since you finally found time today, here you are.

You pull up and park in the empty driveway. Overgrown flower beds crowded with weeds, a porch swing on the veranda whose cushions are soaked with rain, and a giant spider web in between the railings at the top of the stairs greet you as you step out of your car. You stare at it all in horror, thinking, How did this happen?

Walking up the stairs, you tear away the spider web in disgust. Nervously turning the key in the lock, you push open the door and memories fly at you like a powerful gust of wind. 

The question that your mother always asked you arises in your thoughts. “What is home, Harper, what does it mean to you?” It’s just a building of course. A house, something that you live in, you think casually.

You walk over to the coffee table sitting in the middle of the room and swipe your hand over the top. “Where did all this dust come from?!” You say to the empty room as you rub your fingers together. Suddenly you can envision the board game, Clue, on the table. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles, your parents and you sit around it, laughing and chatting. You remember bouncing on “Grampy’s” knee while he patiently taught you how to play. A small smile creeps across your face as you tenderly think of those times. Ah, those were the good old days, you laugh softly.

You manage to tear yourself away and walk into the kitchen. You open the cupboards to see if anything was left behind. A few empty pickle jars in the fridge remind you of when your mother taught you how to make jam and pickled carrots.

It was thanksgiving and your mother decided that it would be a good idea to try something different with the meal – not carrots, pickled carrots, for a change. You insisted that she needed your help and begged her to let you – you got your wish. The sugar and salt jars weren’t marked, so when she told you to put in the salt, you mixed up the jars, and in went the sugar. The first thing your brother said when he tasted them was, “Blech, what is this!?” much to the injury of your seven-year-old pride.

You turn to go upstairs to your old room, but the sight of the old, empty fish tank along the living room wall makes you remember when your pet fish, Rummy, died. He was a big, chubby goldfish who you claimed had a love for watching you play Rummy, hence his name. You loved the fish dearly and were very sad when he died. You cried many, many buckets of tears. Your parents tried to console you by getting another fish, but back to the pet store it went. You did, however, accept a hamster on your tenth birthday.

You walk up the old stairs that creak with every movement. The hallway is small and narrow with doors on either side. It is rather cluttered, unopened boxes line the corridor. You run your hand along the wall and feel the familiar popcorn texture. You had hated it so much then, but now it feels homey and comforting. 

Your bedroom is beautiful. The walls are a delectable lemon yellow, the curtains are of the same colour, and so is the bedspread with the crisp, white undersheet turned over. On the opposite side of the room, the warm, mellow rays of the sun from the window illuminated an easel with an unfinished painting. It was of a deer in an open, green field. A few thoughts come to mind of what inspired you. 

A beautiful spotted fawn and its mother were grazing in the yard. The sun was so bright that morning, and rain had fallen the night before. The air was crisp and had a wonderfully refreshing feeling. You were seated outside, the wind rippling your sweater. Your sketchbook was propped up in your lap and the pencil was thwacking your head mercilessly. Your eyes were closed tightly, thinking of what you could add to your drawing, when suddenly you heard the front door creak and a loud, “Shoo! Shoo! what do you think you’re doing? Get out! Ge-e-e-et!!!”

It was your mother, her chocolate curls bobbing as she warningly waved a rolling pin in the deer’s faces. You laughed heartily, realizing that the deer had been eating your mom’s prized flowers.

“What is home, Harper, what does it mean to you?” echoes in your mind.

Your reverie having finished, you glance regretfully at the unfinished painting in front of you. Perhaps you could finish in your spare time? After all, it would be such a disgrace to have this canvas go to waste – it is such a nice canvas. You decide to load it into your trunk when you are done with the house.

You also remember painting a landscape of a dense forest with a lake in its midst. There was a pretty wooden bridge across the lake, with the classic “two people under an umbrella” on top of it. It was raining and ducks were in the lake, quacking to their hearts’ content. 

Painting has always been the joy of your life. It was like you were transported to a different place and time; you were there, talking with the trees. You understood why they leaned and why they grew bare, you knew their very nature. The ducks confided in you solely and told you their most appalling secrets. You understood the language of the flowers, which ones were the hopeless romantics – the roses, of course – and which ones were so frightened of being forgotten – the forget-me-nots to be sure. 

You entered the forest painting in a prestigious art contest and you won $5000! That’s how your career began. Now, you are an accomplished artist, you have illustrated several children’s books and hold a class every Wednesday for young painters.

You re-explore the house a while longer, revisited by many more memories. The question arises in your thoughts once more, What is home? This time, you don’t answer like you did last time. “Home” carries more meaning for you now. "Home" is a place where you laugh and cry, where you learn lessons and accomplish your dreams. Home is where you are loved unconditionally, where you are supported and wanted. Home carries memories, both bitter and sweet.