The Pieces of Memory

"I remember". A simple phrase that means so much more now, expanding beyond the dictionary definition. I remember it all. The way that the crisp Autumn air hit my skin, and how everything felt at that moment. I can still see my mom standing at the foot of the stairs, beckoning me rapidly to come down. The final moments of a normal life. 

“Hurry, hurry, please,” were the only words she said. 

I ran as fast I could, and when I finally reached the threshold of our kitchen, I saw it all. The smashed plates scattered around, and my father, with balled fists and eyes filled with red rage. Upon seeing me, he showed no remorse. And I, for the first time noticed how he had always been a man of callous and stubborn nature. He announced he was leaving, and slammed the door. I remember the ground shaking beneath my feet. The first crack in the foundation of our lives. I ran after him and called for his comfort, one last time. 

“Dad, please, no,” I said. 

He looked back, and there was nothing. Nothing but, the cold air all around, and the sun covered slightly by clouds. I stepped slowly back inside my home, a brief walk that seemed like it would live on as a painful continuum. Forever existing outside of time and space. When I reentered, the house could no longer be called my home. I knew that the instant I found my mother holding the pieces of glass. Analyzing them, moving the small fragmented pieces back and forth to see how they looked from every angle. I don’t even think she knew that I was present. 

“Mom, what happened?” 

No response was offered. She just kept moving the pieces, twirling them in between her fingers. So, I gave up on trying to talk. I went upstairs to try to make sense of the broken shards on my own. Replaying each and every moment in my life to try to understand if there had been any signs that would only make sense if I knew then what I do now. That everything in life has an expiration date, and we are just simply biding our time until that point. Until we grab the milk out the fridge, and only then come to find that the milk turned sour. I never got the answer to why he left, or why he chose that day to do so. But, over the course of his absence, I did learn that our house was haunted by his ghost. It would appear suddenly and at random. The cold could be felt all around the room. Lingering in the silent air. After it happened, my mother took on an entirely new personality. Adapted and built from the trauma she would never talk about. No matter how much I pleaded with her to just help me understand, she’d simply say, 

“It’s over honey. Investigation is not needed for closure, it’ll come on its own.” 

I know what she meant by those words. She was trying to save me from digging the skeletons out of the closet, and playing dress up with their bones. That’s one aspect of my mother that never changed. She always felt the instinctive urge to protect me. To be honest, when I begin to pick up the glass from that day, I often think about how she was the one who wanted my presence in the kitchen. I don’t blame her though, I think that was her offering me a small amount of peace. To at least witness the state in which he left. It gave me the ability to no longer see him as an omniscient God, instead to begin to understand that he resembled a hurricane that had the power to demolish everything in the surrounding area. As the years passed, the house dilapidated. My mom tried her best to keep everything in tact but, some days, it was hard for her to even move. There were the days where his ghostly presence was felt the most. Memory is malleable, and so as it sits and stirs inside my own brain, it torpedoes around my moms. I can’t uncover my own gaps in the swiss cheese that gets regarded as memory but, I know my mom does not have that luxury. I can remember all the days following the incident that we sat in perpetual silence with only the stirring noises of the past. I’d like to say that as a family, we’ve moved on but, it would be a lie. We’ve grown, that's for sure. I’ve kept mental tracks of these adaptations, similar to the one on the wall in my room that my mom used to keep track of my development through childhood. 

For a long time, I kept my mind at ease by reading. I would travel to lands of make believe to escape from my mental paralysis. It was a good way to bide my time. My mom threw herself into work. And we traveled on, occasionally stopping to look back on the frigid way that the past seems to be all around us. Years passed, as they so often do, and we never once heard from the man I called my father. Frankly, I hope neither of us hear his voice again. My mom has yet to start dating however she has started to love romance movies again. The funny thing about remembering is that it does not leave any room for forgetting the key details. Still, new ones can be created and manufactured around what was previously there. 5 years ago today, the curtain closed on life as I knew it, and I carry the images of that day with me like a loaded burlap sack. However, the grieving process hasn’t been all bad. My mom and I have often found peace in each other's comfort. I remember the air that day, as I will remember it now. The same Autumn breeze, except the sun has shifted across the sky, and now shines into our old house. Illuminating every aspect of the kitchen, striking the stained glass window hanging that my mom positioned above our sink. A combination of the past and the present, and the reminder that nothing stays the same.