Greetings Everyone!
Today’s post is written in the new modern memoir style. Read it slowly, and immerse yourself in the experience.
Notice that the new modern memoir style doesn’t minimize or gloss over our feelings, and it doesn’t exaggerate or dramatize them either. The reality of our experience is honored and acknowledged. The overall emphasis is on wisdom and sometimes that becomes apparent later, as we be with our own experience…
Kind Neighbors
Entering my most favorite house to visit in the neighborhood I remember it bursting with tantalizing smells of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. The tasty aroma would drift out the open window as we got nearer, as if calling us by name, luring the kids with the happiest smiles together, every weekend. I salivate in the memory.
Mrs. O’Brien, my elder neighbor, who nurtured my childhood, fostering my growth with milk, cookies and her wisdom, is sitting across the room from me now. The high-backed chair with a large lace doily crowning the back of her head, keeping the oils of her shiny silver hair from staining the silk upholstery, appears quite a status symbol for the family who lives here.
I sense an invisible sign permeating the air, it whispers to me “do not disturb.” She looks as if she is bathing in memories in the early morning sunlight streaming softly through the squeaky-clean beveled glass window panes, with their frames painted the color of a cloudy gray sky.
As rainbow patterns dance on her pale skin, un-noticed by her, I imagine they are like a whimsical hello from an old friend.
Her slouched shoulders are draped in bright blue fabric blended with lots of vibrant reds and purple. The braided metallic gold fringe, reflecting any hint of body movement, remains still. The shawl hugs her like a mother with her child.
Perfectly placed on the highly polished mahogany table is a gold-rimmed bone-china cup and saucer steaming with lavender tea, scenting the air with calm.
Suddenly, whoosh and plop, the white cat streaks past and leaps up, onto the sun-drenched window sill. Perched, tail twitching back and forth, green eyes focused alertly on something outside.
The door bell chimes interrupting the scene as several stamped envelopes drop to the black and white ceramic floor echoing in the large foyer. A shiny brass mail slot adorns the eight foot high glossy enamel white door like a proud piece of jewelry from a long family lineage.
Her frail porcelain hands, hold a floral engraved solid silver pen, with arms crossed over her heart, embracing a well-worn brown leather, gilded journal. Eyes closed, she sighs wearily as her head drops down toward the tender embrace.
Tears gently glisten in the rays of sunlight, kissing her cheeks as if consoling her of missed days gone by. I can only imagine that the memories are still very much alive in the pages of her cherished journal as if it were the keeper of her life.
With my soft dust cloth I carefully run my hand across the white marble mantle above the crackling flames of the flagstone fireplace. Gently lifting the wood-framed triangle-shaped glass box encasing a ritually-folded red, white and blue American flag, I ask respectfully:
“Is this in honor of your husband?”
Her head shakes left and right, saying no. Her voice follows saying, “his is in my bedroom on the night stand. That one is my son’s.”
My neighborly good deed done for the day, I pick up the mail and add it to a growing stack of unopened sympathy cards. Evidence of a world out there full of people who care.
Cocooned in grief she looks at me as I open the door to leave.
She says nothing. Her eyes say everything.
I smile from my heart and my hand waves, child-like, as if hope for tomorrow is beckoning. She looks back to her journal, returning to the embrace of her memories.
Anya Sophia Mann
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This story reminds me of how I experience grief. The loss of what was and what could have been with an invitation to keep going. There is life to be lived even though I don't see the way yet and it hurts.
I love this. What I love most is how much I sense when reading this. I can smell the air, it’s like I’m in the room. It’s an experience. Like being invited in to be an invisible participant.