Rough, rectangular bricks made an uneven pattern in the small enclosure, edges sticking up and others cracked in half, but the groundwork lay beneath the powdery cold, partly covered. The blanket rested undisturbed, pristine and layered. Rarely anyone or anything ventured into this abandoned space. The children grew up and left, returning sporadically, but still ignoring the basketball net replaced several years back to entice its use.
The chain link fence bowed in areas from remaining upright for so long, bullied by the heavy, insistent snow. Deep gouges edged into a tree trunk like chapped lips, a lost limb appearing cauterised from its side. Young girls swung hula hoops around the branch in earlier years, and a brass bird-cage before they were born. The garage door also reflected age and wear, cracked in places once painted annually in shady spring afternoons.
The woman walked on the brick, boots sinking into the ice and frost. She paused and looked, really saw. She breathed in the memories slowly, closing her eyes, then opening them to attune herself to the moment and empty her mind.
She considered her hesitation in visiting this sacred space at first, afraid to notice any oddities or differences from the carefree days of her childhood. Yet, she did not dare to walk over the forward steps and continued despite her fears.
Nothing stirred except the winds blowing through the frozen pine needles; a torn rag somehow caught in the tree branches above and waved at her to move ahead. Her methodical procession led her to circle the yard with care. She thought about Lao Tsu and wondered if she was a closet Taoist; the internal chatter ceased and she felt purified, whole, and at one with her surroundings. She felt the air alive with God and hope, pushing away the darkness from the past few months.
There were strange things present; things she did not understand or want to know. Some changes amused her.
Other alterations suggested loneliness, death, and lost companionship. She remembered hearing her grandmother’s laughter, the squeaking line of laundry hung to dry in the summer heat and playing in a turtle shaped sandbox. She felt warm, despite the outward chill and knew to leave when her cheeks hurt from the cold and happiness.
She saw herself as a six-year-old, picking fennel from the garden, washing the bitter leaves with a hose and eating it to appease her proud grandfather. She recounted good memories- hopscotch games with friends, feeding her dog saltine crackers so he would lick her face and make her laugh, and building an island for a Lord of the Flies project as a middle schooler.
I will return after the winter gives way to weeds and wildflowers, she vowed, turning back down the alleyway, but only after buying a basketball.
Beautiful memories with such emotions put into words. I hope you do go back. There is nothing like the memories of home.
Yes, it was a very moving experience to remember good times in a now empty place.