selling every memory

1


SELLING EVERY MEMORY2


Mommy says “a lady came by with a beautiful little girl they asked about that playhouse in the yard..”, that two story blue house, with the tiny broken windows that were shattered by teenagers on devils night. Mommy had covered them with heavy dark curtains, but you could still see the blemishes on the outside. Our little house that has a small porch with an overhanging to protect it from the strong sun, surrounded by sunflowers that mommy had planted for me. She says that “..they want to buy it..”. They want to buy a piece of my daddy, a part of his dream life that he left behind for us. I know what they want, they wish to rip the innocent house out of the ground and change it, to finish what he started; “…continue the plumbing, fix the broken windows, vacuum out the bugs and place pretty carpeting all around to make it safe from all those nails...”that were purposefully bent in the kitchen for my plastic spoons so they could hang just like mommies. “It will be a perfect place to build memories…” In a place that wasn’t made for them.
“I would say that $800 should be enough because of all the repairs it needs…” it was kept exactly the way he left it. “…is a reasonable price...” what a pathetic sum for a memory. But I guess that doesn’t matter as long as we get paid off, everyone knows we need the money. Still talking on the phone with the lady, she says “…why should we keep it? No one uses it”, mommy claims, almost like an accusation. Going once, twice, sold to a little girl who deserves it, who will get to help her daddy as he “fixes up” what he doesn’t understand. They are the newcomers to town and they don’t know what happened to us. If they knew, would they still want it? Would they shrink away in fear and pity? They sound so young and hopeful, so ready to start life together. A cute couple most likely; why don’t they deserve to be happy? Why don’t we?
As selfish as it is, I don’t want them to have it. It’s not theirs, why are they worthy of what my father had made in his own readiness to start a life together with my mother. I know mother is right, that none of us use it, but why should that matter. It has always been reassuring to be able to gaze upon its sad magnificence of a dream never carried out. The house has always been there, ever since I remember. It was there before that horrid night when things finally focused into brutal reality and the dreamy sequence that was supposed to be my childhood shattered into a million shards of piercing reality that home is not a shelter from everything. But that house, it was always constant; it was always there, even when daddy couldn’t be. I wanted to use it, but it felt so empty, trapped in time, waiting for my daddy to continue and make it better. Mommy did manage to put pretty flowers all around it, and it looks adorable. But if they take it, what will the flowers surround? What will they make adorable? It will be just a big space, a hole in the middle of all that beauty. And even now, we are collaborating to spread out that beauty. To rip that away, spread it apart, disperse, and disintegrate. Now when I will look out side, I will see straight through that picture in my mind as it fades, and disperses, just like the flowers, throughout time.
“It’s a good idea mommy.” I tell her because I know it’s what I need to say, and calling her mommy is what she needs to hear. She desires to hear the trusting and innocent word of mommy so she understands that I still trust her decisions. Plus, I know that it needs to be sold. But loneliness pierces my little heart at the thought of once again losing my daddy. “It would be too much space to fill with a new garden, anyway we already have too many flower beds. It makes sense to move the flowers.” She turns to me with a hopeful look-she only wants to do what’s right-asking with her eyes if I honestly agree, if she’s got me to stand behind her. I nod my head absently, and quietly mourn the idea of watching a big crane rip out and move the last remaining memorial.
I can hear them excited and happy through the phone while I stand next to mother, as she tells them to “…come over and look inside the house”. I hear what I suppose is the little curly haired girl, who is not much younger than I am, squeal with happiness. I can just see her now, jumping up and down, curls bouncing with glee and flowing all about as she runs around. She doesn’t know how much that playhouse means to me.
Later in the day, during early spring, at that fragile time when growth fights a continuous battle with bitter winter, they came. They pull up, and as soon as that little girl with dimples in her cheeks and a button nose pops her curious head out of the sliding van door, mother turns to me. “Why don’t you take Mary and show her the inside of the house? I’m sure she would appreciate the personal tour” Tour? A nice little show of what could have been? No! No, I don’t want to mother. But this I don’t mention as we rush towards the two story miniature house in my lawn and pull open the front door covered with our porch, complete with a lock. Daddy had wanted us safe, just like we should have been in our home that Sunday night. To bad locks don’t matter when your door is glass and he has a gun. I twist the handle almost too short for me now, and step inside.
Once inside I realize with a powerful punch in my gut how much I will really miss this place; with its musty aroma with a hint of the empty spice cans that we used to bring float around the downstairs area. I turn to the unfinished sink surrounded by a plank of wood to serve as a counter on my right just inside the door. I remember acting like we had real glass dishes to clean and that we needed to wash up for dinner. Climbing on the make-shift counter, I reach for the window that opens picture-perfectly above the sink that we used to look out on, and fake cool our food on its window sill. Opening the window I don’t plan on putting fake hot food on its sill, instead I wish to air out the smell of my memories. She doesn’t deserve to breathe in the precious time I spent in here. Turning towards her, I watch as she trails her sticky fingers along the cold metal cabinets and wooden walls. She practically trips over herself in amazement at a house just her size. Her eyes are incandescent as she gazes upon her treasure. My treasure.
She stretches her little arms towards the ceiling that I now have to bend over to avoid hitting. I remember trying to reach those very same beams every time I played in here. Tears painfully gather underneath where no one can see them as I try to bite back loss. I blink back emotion and refocus on the little girl as she creeps slowly in wonder towards the semi-winding stair. “I love it here! It is pretty! It is mine! It will be mine! Mommy I want it!” My eyes widen with the overflow of burning pain and sudden anger at this innocent child. Not much older than I was before I lost my innocence. Its not hers! Mother, NO! I won’t let you sell daddy! The little girl steps carefully down the stairs and starts to charge towards the door to seal this little houses fate… “NO!” I reach wildly for her and find her fragile arms “No, you can’t have it! It’s mine! MY daddy made this. Your daddy can make you another!” I rattle her slightly in time with my shaking rage and hurt. “You don’t deserve this house! Who do you think you are to take something that doesn’t belong to you? This will never belong to you.” I hiss into her ear that I must bend to reach. She tries to cower away from my sudden wild rage. She doesn’t understand how I could have suddenly turned on her, like I couldn’t understand why the world suddenly turned its back on me, why god turn away from us that night. I tighten my hold on her arm, and she starts to cry with fear and pain. “This is Mine!” I shove my finger in the direction of the rusted cupboards completely covered with dust, except for the finger trails the little girl left. Already she is leaving her mark on my territory. This infuriates me further. “These are mine!” Letting one hand drop off her arm, I grab at the dusty plastic dishes that were alone for years. “It was made for me!” Still clutching at the dishes slippery with cobwebs and dried dirt from all those mud pies, I let go of her other arm and spin madly about, knocking her around in my plight.
Suddenly I stop and turn towards her with a feeling of insane lightness “All the time we lost things now. One by one everything of his goes. Bit by bit we sell off every memory, EVERYTHING he left for us. But this is it. THIS IS IT!! I’ve had it. You don’t understand; how could you? You have a father to love you back, you don’t know death. Mother bids off every bit of him with hardly any emotion. I try to be like her, but I can’t. I can’t keep standing by and watch my father leave again!! Daddy means some thing to me!”
With that I lose my strength and give in to crumble pitifully on the floor. Grasping desperately to the dirty remains of those aged plates I sob on them. As they catch my held back tears, the dirt starts to rub away. “DAADDYY!!! WHY aren’t you here to hold me?” I drag in air through a straw “Oh God, where were you? Why did he deserve your wrath? We went to church, we went. We prayed, we believed.” I agonizingly try for one more breath… “WE HAD A LIFE TO LIIIVE!!!!!”
“Honey? What is all the yelling about? That little darling is terrified. What happened? I saw red marks on her arms, young lady. You are in big trouble if you think…” Numbly I regain my senses. My face itches and my eyes are puffy. I want to crawl into my bed and sleep, but I can’t move my tense muscles from the fetal position that I had fallen into. I open my sore eyes as mommy crouches down and scoops me up into her arms to hold me as she did the morning daddy passed away. Oh mother, I miss him I cling to her harder, and press my face into her shirt. In the silence I hear her sniffle and I wish to tell her everything is going to be OK, that I will be strong for her. But my throat is rough from screaming desperately and straining to gain air, so instead I cling to her; dishes still clenched in my sweaty palm. And on each others shoulders, we let go.