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Retracing Steps
Scott and I are walking on a sidewalk uprooted by a tree that’s shaded the spot for decades. The street has houses on both sides, but the sounds of the city are all around. We’re in the town where he grew up. We turn a corner and he slows in front of the house of his elementary school buddies: 3 brothers. He remembers playing whatever sport was in season in the front yard. I can almost see the gangly boy in shorts and an OP t-shirt swinging the bat, making contact, and running to the grass-worn spot that was always first base. His face is serious. Even though it’s only…
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Loss Creates Space
My brother and I stand at the dresser I used as a child. It is covered with sewing notions. Things our mom used to patch levis, stitch quilts, and add badges to scout shirts. Things that were useful when she was around. My brother said: “It’s just a Chex tin, but I remember it from 40 years ago.” I look at the other tin, full of spools of thread and pins and buttons. It takes me to my mom. Actually everything in the house holds a memory of my mom, my dad or my childhood. Our dad’s death evokes our mom, who has been gone almost 13 years. I pick…
