Homecoming
Week 2, Day 2
My memories of early childhood are few and fragmented. I know people who claim to remember being 2 years old, or even 1, but I call shenanigans. My memories begin at 4, and those are muddled, isolated incidents in a sea of fog. Asking my mother for a cup of water in a sun-filled kitchen. Shattering a glass Christmas tree ornament on a hard tile floor. Waking in my bed from a nightmare about drowning in sand.
But by 5 I have a robust narrative, a chain of memories that cling to my hair and catch in my eyes. I live there, mostly, rewinding and replaying those events. Not because I want to; my life then was nothing I would choose to relive. Life now is better primarily because it is not my life as it was then. Yet I am unable to sweep those memories away. I desire only one thing: a box, sturdy but soft, beautiful and secure, in which to lock up my childhood. With a key. I could visit when I choose, as most people do, and contain it the rest of the time.
Child me would adore such a box. A cozy, quiet, safe place is all she ever wanted. I’ll give her some books, and she will be content. The things she has seen will always stay with her, but she knows how to live with that.
In her closet, she tried to create just such a space. When she was in need of refuge, the stuffed animals and dolls and clothes that littered the closet floor were pushed to one side, and pillows and blankets became a sitting room, a reading nook, a sanctuary. She was often lost in that space, unnoticed and unneeded for hours while the household raged around her.
But every time the tempests worked themselves up to a fever pitch, she was drawn out of her sanctuary (by unknown forces within her), out of her room and into the eye of the storm. I think she wanted to help, thought that merely by being present, she could calm the raging winds. Maybe she just wanted to be a witness, to see and understand and record the events for future study. See and record, she achieved. Understanding is still a work in progress.
While I have a certain fondness for that closet stronghold, visiting my former home fills me with dread. The sensation creeps up on me during the long interstate drive. As soon as I cross that last state line, a prickling unease awakens behind my breastbone. When I catch sight of the Rocky Mountains in the distance, the unease spreads, wrapping up around my throat and dropping down into the pit of my stomach. I feel queasy, sweaty, hopeless. When I take the last turn off the highway, a helpless apathy has taken over. I’m just going through the motions as I navigate the last few intersections to the careworn subdivision with the dusty cul-de-sac that holds the house I love and fear the most.
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This is a story start — if you’d like to see where the story goes, “clap” for it. My “winning” start (based on number of readers who clap for it) will be developed further and might grow into a full short story!
