Photo by Mats Hagwall on Unsplash
I am at my mother’s house today. This is the house where I grew up. The house where I learned to read. To write. To understand math.
This is the house in which I learned what it meant to be a member of a family. I was one of six children here. One of a group. I was part of a team.
Today I am here, having lunch with my Mom. She is old now. She doesn’t remember much. Her spirit is still here, still strong and still powerful. But she is only a shadow of the Mom I knew when I was young.
I stand in the kitchen. My arms are crossed. I look out the kitchen window.
This was once the spot where I stood observing the power of my Mother. I stood here. She stood at the stove, apron around her waist, spatula in hand.
This is the spot where I stood and watched as the meatballs were browned. Where the sauce was stirred. Where the chicken was sauteed and the stew was simmered.
I stand in the kitchen.
I look out the window, across the yard. I see the aging shed as it now stands, and I see the slightly overgrown garden that sprawls across what used to be our lawn.
But I don’t see today. I don’t see the aging of this yard, of this land, of this house.
For some inexplicable reason, as I stand in this small spot, I see one small memory from my childhood. I see it clearly. I feel it in the skin of my feet. I smell it. I hear the sound of that one afternoon.
When I was a child, my identity was largely shaped by the ethnicity of my grandparents.
We were Italians.
We were a part of that land. A part of that heritage.
We honored our Italian heritage.
So. As a part of that shared experience, my Grandfather Giuseppe took all of us to the beach. I remember it as if it had happened an hour ago. My Grampa leading the way across the rocky outcroppings, bucket in hand. I remember following each of his steps. He lead us across the rocks, down toward the tidal pools.
I remember the smell and the feel of the slippery green weeds, and how it felt to lift them up. I remember the feel of the small snails clustered on the rocks under the weeds. I remember, so very clearly, how it felt to pull them up and plop them into my bucket.
This was joy. This was summer. This was food. This was family.
We used to gather up buckets of “periwinkles” and bring them home to eat. We felt that we were a part of the earth, a part of the sea, as we’d capture our tiny prey and place them in our small beach pails.
It was magic.
But it was everyday life, too.
So today, as I stood in my Mom’s kitchen, a half a century past the last time I stood here with a pail full of sea snails, I felt my heart melting and pounding in equal measure.
I stood there in our kitchen. I looked out the kitchen window.
I didn’t see the overgrown yard or the falling shed.
Instead, I saw my young and tender self, seated on an old wooden picnic table, a shining silver pin in my hand. I watched myself laughing as I used the straight pin to spear a tender morsel of seafood and pop it into my mouth.
And I felt the salty, briny, sandy bite of that little snail. I felt the sun beating down on the back of my neck. I remembered the laughter of my siblings, and I saw the smile of my Grampa, watching us as we ate these tiny sea creatures.
Today I stood in my mother’s kitchen. I looked out into the backyard. I felt the sand gritting between my teeth. I felt the warm laughter of my Grandfather as he helped me gather a bucket full of food.
I stood still.
I remembered the sound of the little shells as they fell at our feet. I remembered the way that that the tiny “doors” would stick to the soles of our sandy feet after we had eaten our fill.
There is joy and purpose and meaning in the smallest of moments.
Today I remembered the feeling of the periwinckles on my tongue.
Tonight I wonder what small and tender moments my own grandchildren will take from having known me.
3 thoughts on “Strange, Sweet Memories”
This is a truly lovely post Karen. Thank you for sharing this memory.
What a wonderful post.