Along the Edges of the Pond

Her letter was truly a surprise to me. It almost made me bite all of my nails and start counting the years... but counting would mean reliving...

I don't want to remember that I believe in ghosts.

Surely it couldn't have been too long since we last spoke. I can still feel her hands holding mine, weathered... but every touch intentional. Calloused but soft. Her perfume sings in dreamy ringlets around my thoughts. Is it choking?

I can try to look back... but my first memories are always of the small mementos only kept alive in my mind due to the odd attention to detail that is always predisposed to the eyes of a child. She had the old and weighty mirror with that blotching silver stem. There was her much older, fragile living room where one thought everything was glass. One hasty breath could shatter everything, even the air.

I guess it did.

Along it's wall rested that whispering, untuned piano. Awaiting the top of the center staircase still lies the closet. Does it still carry it's cloud of satins, tulles, and silks of nightgowns for good little girls? Do they all hang limp in their pearly, shimmering shine? Have they decayed as I have? Do they still where the old shadows? My shadow... it still waits for me there... at Grandma's house.

There are older thoughts still bound within those haunted walls... maybe that's why every time I dance this dance I wander off to the cabin's surrounding acres of my good friend, New England. I take moss covered steps. I breathe in the luxery of not knowing yet. That everything good would stop turning. That life as I knew it would end.

Was I ever real to her, or simply an apparition? I read the letter again, and waiting for me along your xoxo's is the sight of us two walking the sun-dappled grass that lined the pond. My lovely grandma and me... Did we ever feel it's rays?

Did we ever leave an impression in the sandy path or were we as dead as the angry armor we grew into. You had once been "beside yourself"... pointing that once loving hand... I don't want to go back and hear you say,

"You are the problem".

But enough- let's stay outside and look- the trees! My old friends... and I can't even remember their names anymore... only that their buds were emeralds and jade, and were ever so kind and full of life to me. Can branches create the supportive arm and hand upon a shoulder? Can spring leaves perform the array of kisses uopn my cheek? I felt loved beneath that summer sun from every oak and maple... and now I can never go back and simply say, "hello".

But of course... there's the letter.

It's a door, if I've ever seen one. A hint, a sign, a cry, a suggestion. It calls me, "come back"... but it does not say, "I am sorry".

A haven and a home: when I clean the tattered bandages that's what I remember. When I feel forgiving, it's the smell of wood and warm spices surrounding tan little feet and curious, loving eyes that give welcome. Brown, like my grandmother's.

Can we walk around the pond again?

Can we do away with arguments of the past. Let's just fill more baskets with the berries that grew like battlements around the underwater kingdom of frogs and fish.

Can we make your banana bread again?

Can we stop licking the old wounds and you could let me lick the spoon instead? Let's mash the browned fruit with giggles and put it all into a bowl. Let's make a mess and laugh with cucumber sandwiches in our happy, cakey hands.

Can we can catch little sun fish again?

I'll run and grab the old poles. We could let go of our differences and simply shriek and wiggle as you show me how to hook the worms. You could help me cast off like you used to... if you wanted... or I guess... since you're older... maybe I could help you. Then, after we catch them, let's let them go.

Will I ever let go? This fume-less assault of opinions that chains me back from writing a real reply.

To your letter.

You were a good grandmother back then...

It's been 10 years since I willingly walked the steps to the haunted place. A decade since we needed to discuss the abusive elephant sprawled out dead to me in the room.

Your daughter, the Alcoholic, I'd growl, suddenly older.

Your father, the Liar, she'd reply.

Just. Enough. Can I let it finally be over.

I type and type my words and whims and finally find civility.

She had ended her letter with "I love you" and hearts... She is standing at the entrance to the old pond with a basket in one hand, her other remains outstretched... to me?

You... you want- to walk like we used to? To laugh and smile like we used to? To bake treats in the kitchen and catch fish in the old pond, like we used to. Yes. Yes it seems so. Because I read her words, and she... she's actually calling out to me.

I want to run back into that sunshine... Even if it is a dream... or a lie. But part of me holds myself, cradles myself. Someone had to.

But I'm not ready yet. I'm not ready for the dazzling reflection, the clink of crystal at dinner, the nightgowns, the berries, the laughs, or the ghosts that watch me from all around... I'm not ready to hold your hand... Not yet.

Instead, I do the safe thing. No more fire like I once had... just... muted, polite, nicities. I send the courteous reply. I sit back, a liar, and hope that maybe one day I can find the words that have always been there. One day in understanding and forgiveness... maybe I could let myself tell her,

I love you too... and,

I miss you.