Paper Heart

I stood there just looking at it. It was small with beat-up white siding and few loose shingles. I wondered why my mom insisted on staying here? I took a deep breath. It was mine now, and I mean, I get it. It was hers. It’s hard to put a price on dignity.

The neighborhood was its usual vibrant self. It didn’t seem to notice the loss. I watched as two kids raced their bikes, screaming at one another with full volume. The neighbor across the street waved as she filled up a blow-up pool with what I knew was ice-cold hose water, too cold for me, but not for a determined toddler. I smiled softly and waved back. I loved living in southern California. It was a warm, sunny 72-degree day in February.

My feet were beginning to feel like dead weights in the grass as I looked ahead. I knew the house was mine now, but I still didn’t want to go in. Its energy was just dark, dull, and uninviting. I took another deep breath. I hadn’t noticed the incessant taping my foot had started to do on its own until just now. I reached down, placing my hand on my right knee, relaxing my leg. I turned to look at my car. Could I just leave and do this another time? It had only been a few months. I turned back to look at the house.

My mother lived in this house for as long as I was alive. I tried to move her out countless times. I’ve even offered to buy her new homes, plural, houses, but she’d always refuse. She insisted she liked this street, the neighbors, and the stockpiled memories throughout the house. I told her I’d keep it. I’d promised. I took another deep breath. I wasn’t planning on moving in. I didn’t know what I was planning, but first, I needed to rip the band-aid and walk in.

I closed my eyes and took one more deep breath. I was beginning to think coming here alone was a bad idea, but I’ve already committed to it. I opened my eyes and headed towards the front porch. I creaked the storm door open, letting it lay on my back as I twisted the key getting inside. It wasn’t a large house. We didn’t have much when I was growing up, but my parents busted their butts day in and day out to ensure I was always comfortable.

I walked through the living room kitchen and peeked into the two bedrooms. The space felt frozen in time. Everything was in its place, waiting for a company that hadn’t returned. I’m now sixty-five years old, and my room still looked like my room. It’s been updated here and there since I moved out forty years ago, but it was mostly the same. I had planned to start there, but my mother pressed to start in her and my father’s room. It had been only hers for the past ten years now.

My mother knew me too well, and she knew I wouldn’t be able to walk into this house any time soon after her passing. She made me make yet another promise to walk through that front door on Valentine’s Day. For her, I’d do anything. So, here I am. She told me to look in the closet to the right and find a brown box labeled “Keeps.”  She wasn’t a strict woman, but she was organized and planned. That made this more than manageable.

Here I am, standing in the doorway of her room, staring at the closet to the right. Her bed was perfectly made, but it was too dusty for my mother’s liking. I felt my heart strain for a beat as I thought about my negligence. I should’ve come sooner. At least just to dust. I straightened up and walked to the closet. I pulled open the wooden door and began to search the base. There was a brown box with “Keeps” written in a permanent marker right where she said.

I felt weird sitting on the bed, so I pulled the box to the middle of the room and sat on the hardwood floor. I ripped the tape and folded the sides down to see a note on top. Under the message were two small bags tied together and then a bunch of items I had made as a child. My eyes began to well just thinking about how thoughtful she always was, keeping all these things.

Slowly, I peeled the tape back, holding the note together, and read.

To my little peanut, I know today seems hard, but I’m always with you. Open the blue bag first. You won’t remember, but you made me this little trinket on Valentine’s Day many years ago. It has always been one of my favorite things. Open the green bag second. I’ve done you the same favor and made you something special to hold on to, just like you did for me. Smile every day, my love.

XOXO,

Mom

I could no longer control the emotions that had bubbled to the surface. I set the note down and tucked my head into my knees, and began to cry. I wiped the dripping snot from my nose and gasped for air in the small interims of tears. I didn’t care that she lived an entire life and that ninety-eight was old. It wasn’t long enough. I needed her back here, with me now. I needed her here with me until my demise. I pulled the tail of my shirt and wiped my wet face, gulping air. I bit down on my bottom lip to distract myself, and I reached for the blue bag.

Gently, I pulled out a paper heart. It had two scrunched paper arms with hands stretched out from either side, one googly eye, and a barely readable “paper hug” written on its belly. I chuckled to myself. I did recall making this dumb thing. It was either first or second grade. I specifically remember because I fought with a boy named Max for the blue paper the heart was made out of. He insisted I use pink or red like the other girls, but I wanted the blue. My mom liked blue. He pinched me as a rebuttal tactic, but I pinched him back. I was a pretty strong-willed child. We both got yelled at, and I time out, but I still managed to get the blue paper to make my paper heart hug. I went to set the bag down and felt something jiggle inside. Glimpsing in, I spotted the other googly eye and chuckled again. I wondered where Max was now?

It was time for the green bag. I took a deep breath and reached in. My eyes welled, and my smile widened. It was a paper hug heart. The same as mine, but my mother’s was more tailored. I wept at the discovery. It is what I needed so much right now—a hug from my mom. Delicately, I pulled the googly-eyed heart to my chest and held it there. I closed my eyes and squeezed just a little tighter. I opened my eyes, taking in the details of the heart. Her cut lines were clean and clear. She had chosen a blue very close to mine. Her googly eyes were perfectly placed, and her font looked as though it was printed off of a computer, but I knew she wrote it. It was flawless. I carefully put my new googly-eyed hug into its bag, setting it on the bed. I packed the few items back into the box that I had moved around and stood up. This is all I could do today. I reached for my hug and headed back to the front door.

I stepped through to the porch, pulling the door closed behind me and locking it. I took another deep breath, sucking in the outside world. I’ll come back tomorrow, but I won’t come alone anymore. Opening the passenger side car door, I lightly placed my paper hug bag on the seat and closed the door. Strapping myself into the driver’s side, I looked down at the bag and smiled. It was like I had picked up mom one last time for a ride somewhere. I blinked the last few tears away and put the car into drive, looking at the road ahead.

The end