The pictures on her wall sit crooked; to remind her that absolutely nothing in her life is perfect. These pictures have been a part of her room for as long as she can remember. They were just stupid insignificant pictures that never got removed or packed into boxes when the rest of her “unimportant” childhood items did. But now they were tortuous reminders of everything that the world through at her. Of course, it wasn’t fair to blame all the reminders on these silt pictures of painted flowers, but it was easier. Everything remind her of how everything was falling apart.
She grew up in the country, down a small side road that was in-between two streets that had a steady line of traffic. Her house was at the bottom of a small hill or the top of a slight slant – depending on the direction. She had a long driveway that haas pot holes no matter the season or how many times they were filled. Starting in her childhood, her life had imperfections. Of course these common imperfections weren’t anything significant, in fact they were normal. Until now, when a few pot holes go unnoticed, does she notice the signs that were always there.
She is I, or I am she depending on how you look at life. Technically it is the same situation as “the glass is half full of half empty”, stuff like that. I grew up with my parents, not unlike the mass of the population, and I had two siblings. I was not average or out of the ordinary, I didn’t stand out. I was just me.
For as long as I can remember I’ve lived in the same house, surrounded by the same people. I have counted the number of steps it takes to get to one room to another. I can find my way around with my eyes closed and not fumble once. This structure was my home; not just a house and far from a building – it was my safe place, my own plaza – my home defined me.
Inside these four sturdy walls I grew up. I became the women I am today. Most people might not get it, they may not understand why my home roots are so securely planted. I might not either, if the tables were turned, but luckily for me I got to experience the stable stands of my home.
People say one doesn’t remember much from childhood, I mean how could we really? We were so little, there was so much going on – we could barely talk, let alone process what was happening. But that’s the funny thing about the way the brain is wired, we remember things just sometimes we forget what we are suppose to be remembering.
I can’t pinpoint certain events, on specific days. I can’t remember birthday parties or what was said to be significant events in my life. I can’t remember things that may have been important, like my first word, or the day I took my first step, but I remember enough. I can constantly remember small snippets of memories. Back then through, it wasn’t classified as black or white, back then it was truly just life.
Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes I’ll smell something, or see something and I get flashbacks to my childhood. Like the sunny warm days where I ran in my lane way, around the curve and straight through the heavy basement door. I’d slow just enough to kick off my bulky untied running shoes and then head straight into my grandma’s apartment. No matter the day, or what she had on her plate, I was always greeted with a snack, set up on a plastic TV table in front of the television where my favourite cartoons are just a click away. Memories of my grandma happen often. In the spring, when the sun begins to be present more frequently. Or in the summer when the birds chirp so loud they get you out of bed before noon. These pesky little reminders make me think she sent those loud birds straight from heaven: “get out of bed sleep head, the day is wasting away!” Aside from these little birds and the burning sun there are a ton of things that trigger flash backs and bring my memories flooding back into view.
Evidently though, it’s what you choose to do with those memories that really matters. It is about bringing those memories back to life. It is about disappearing into the past. Getting lost in the whirlwind of your life.
People say you don’t remember, but I beg to differ. Maybe we don’t remember in all five sense, but maybe we remember in at least one.