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It is my habit each Saturday morning to make a cup of my favorite tea, Earl Grey, and sit on the deck in my backyard to make a list of the reasons to be grateful. Other times the Kansas wind was far too fierce for even my heaviest coat, so I would find myself in the kitchen nook, sitting on one of the benches. I found this space quaint and inviting, and I used it on mornings just like this one?too cold to sit outside?when I have counted it as one of my blessings.
On this particular morning, it was difficult to find something to be thankful for. The week at work had been pure torture, and Chloe, my daughter, had a stomach bug and was home from school on Monday, refused to go back to school on Wednesday, and insistent that she go on a last-minute playdate earlier this morning. It was no wonder I was finding it difficult to nail down any reasons to be grateful.
I sipped my tea, pet my little springer spaniel, Lacy, who was lying down on my feet, and let my mind drift?which was not out of the ordinary for me?to the past. There have been occasions when my husband has told me I live too much there, but I would tell him, that is where my childhood family lived. Unlike Paul, my husband, my family had all passed away. There was no mother to ask for recipes, no father to look to for financial advice, and no siblings. My only sibling had been Angela, my older sister by exactly four years?we even had the same birth date, May nineth?and she had been deceased for over thirty years.
I sat up straighter?startling Lacy who had been contentedly napping?and realized I could not remember the contours of Angela's face. That beautiful girl had chased away my nighttime fears of ghosts, demons, and anything else my tender mind could conjure. I put down my cup of tea, and ran to the master bedroom, into the cedar-scented closet where we kept our photo albums. In a time before digital photography could keep thousands of pictures on our phones or laptops, I still enjoyed my traditional camera.
The album I was searching for was one I had assembled decades earlier. It had been the only one saved from the awful fire which had engulfed my family's home when I was fifteen. Looking back now, I knew it was stupid, but back then that album was the one possession I had refused to leave to the flames. When my father burst into my bedroom, yelling for me to get out of the house, I took one precious extra moment to retrieve it from beneath my bed before running barefoot out into the street.
There it was at the very bottom of a plastic storage container we kept all of our albums in. I sat on the bed and once again admired its textured blue leather surface. I traced my finger over each embossed gold letter of my surname on its cover. It was a photo album I had won in a photography contest when I was twelve or so, and at the time, I treasured it dearly and vowed the only photos I would insert into its plastic sleeves would be those I had taken myself. It was a vow I did not keep after I quickly realized I needed someone to take pictures of my friends and me. At the time I meticulously studied each photograph before choosing the best ones for my treasured photo album.
Now, I took it back to my special bench, placed it on my lap, tucked my legs underneath myself?away from Lacy who was annoyed with me for disturbing her peace again? and opened it to the first page.
To say ours was not the typical childhood would be absurd as there is no typical childhood. Everyone must walk through the hills and valleys of their early years of life on this planet. The early years depicted by Norman Rockwell simply did not exist, or if they did, I never saw that anyone around me was living like that. My parents drank too much, bickered too often, and left all care of myself to Angela. I have memories of her teaching me to brush my teeth, get ready for school, and administering medicine to me when I was sick. My parents provided me with food, clothes, and shelter, but it was sister who gave me comfort, listened to my prayers, and watched over me. So, it should come as no surprise I was feeling the loss of Angela, rather than my parents, on that frigid morning.
My eyes jumped to my sister's image. Her long auburn hair in feathery delicate soft ringlets framed her face as she looked into my camera lens. I could hear her voice echo through time as she told me to make sure I got her best side.
?Jeez Lueez, Mandy,? she would exclaim ?No pictures of my left side, only my right. If I'm going to be a movie star, I don't want any bad pictures of me out there.?
I remembered how I would shake my head and tell her no, she had no bad side, she was as pretty as Sigourney Weaver. This statement always made her laugh, a sound I often craved.
?Yeah, that's right,? she might have replied as she strutted in a small circle, her hands holding an imaginary gun, trying to look dangerous. ?That's me. I'm a badass. No aliens are gonna mess with me.?
I touched this picture as I reached through the years, yearning to hear that laughter once more.
The next photograph showed the two of us together, arm in arm. My dad or Mama must have taken this one. I saw how alike we looked. Two skinny girls, one dark-haired, the other fair, both in cutoff jean shorts and bright tee-shirts. I looked to be twelve or so which meant Angela would be fourteen. I noticed my two braids which were meant to keep my unruly hair in place.
?Come here. You have such a pretty face, Mandy,? Angela would say, ?but your hair gets in the way of seeing it. Let me braid it for you.?
I slowly turned the page, lingering on each photo, wanting to memorize the detail of every shot: the turn of her head, her crooked smile, the faraway look in her eyes when she thought I was not noticing her. These pieces came together to form memories so bright in my mind, they burned as hot as that terrible housefire I had saved them from.
The next page was full of Christmas photos?taken by someone outside my immediate family?of the four of us together, dressed for Christmas dinner. These were the pictures of my parents being as normal as everyone else's parents, or at least, how I envisioned other parents. My father bends down in this one so he can wrap the two of us in his arms. Another one shows the four of us in a conga line, like the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.
Angela had been determined to make me believe in Santa Claus year after year by writing on each gift tag which adorned the many presents under our Christmas tree, ?From Santa?.
?Let's make your Christmas list to Santa Claus,? she would say each year. ?Remember to tell him which present you really, really want.?
Each year ?Santa? brought exactly that for which I had been hoping. I learned later that my sister would beg my mother to give her money so she could buy me that extra special gift.
The page after the Christmas photos is full of pictures from my birthday party. There is my sister, amongst a gaggle of adolescent girls, juggling a huge cake with fourteen candles on top. She is smiling down on me as I prepare to blow them out. I notice the affection that smile holds and I become overwhelmed with emotion, a tsunami of mixed feelings. I was happy to see her beautiful face but so sorrowful to have lost her that young.
It was as if these pictures were competing with each other, every one of them jostling for extra attention, for that extra moment of exposure.
As I dab at my eyes with a tissue, I come to the last page of photographs containing pictures of my sister. She was eighteen. I know this because that was the last year of her life. The photograph of Angela, sitting in her new car, conveys her joyous personality at its best. Her smile, so big, makes my heart swell with happiness.
As I go to tuck my photo album back into its home, I stop. Why should I hide such sublime memories? Instead, I place it in the center of the coffee table in our family room. With it in such a prominent place, I can open it and scan my treasured photographs whenever I want, like on days such as this one when it is tough to find something to add to my list of blessings. I close my eyes and say thank you to the universe because I am beyond grateful to have had such a marvelous sister.
Sometimes I return to the secret place without you. It is not my body that returns, but my soul. You would not believe it, but all of those trees still have our childish drawings carved into their skin. The canopy of leaves still stretches far above the damp earth, cloaking everything in that familiar shade we so often yearned for in the summer months. My mind puts me along the bank of the creek, skipping rocks across the calm rapids. Sometimes I see you there as well, laughing with me like we so often did. It's funny thinking about our secret pact, the pact to not bring others there. It was always our place. For years it was me and you that sat in solitude, ignoring the troubles of our youth. Our seclusion in that forest was the only therapy we needed. I knew that even in random hours, you were only a phone call away. No matter the time of day, you would always come running to me, and we would dance together beneath the moon. It was for those late meetups I was grateful. So often, we ran into the spring rains as bees buzzed about searching for cover. The flowers bloomed around us with the scents of lavender, and many times you would pluck a blooming daisy and give it to me. So often, my mind returns there. Maybe just maybe, your mind visits that forest too. Sadly though, I recall the day it all changed.
It was a lovely fall evening with the kind of chill that brought leaves to their resting places. I called your phone just knowing you would answer with that silent smile only I could hear. That time it was different. The phone rang, it was your Mother who answered.
"Hey Allie, you just missed him. He drove out but never mentioned where he was going,? she said. Now it was my turn for a silent smile.
?No problem Mrs. Reeves, I know just where to find him," I said. Eagerly I drove, listening to the radio station you had left it on. I could see you now, waiting for me as birds chirped and sang their happy songs above your head. It was that day I believed you could predict the future. It seemed to me you knew I needed a visit to the secret palace. You were always one step ahead. Soon I would find you waiting with stones in your hand, ready to challenge me to a skipping contest. I could not tell you how happy I was to see your beat-up truck on that dusty old side road. I parked behind that pickup, smiling to myself once more. The walk there was much like every other time. I smelled the strong scent of pine needles that littered the beaten pathway. The air was crisp and cool, leaving goosebumps along my arms and legs. It was the perfect day to play in the leaves as we once did when our dreams were courageous like that of pirates and royalty.
That secret place, our place, had always been cloaked in beautiful silence. Only the rapids and wild beast calls could be heard, echoing somewhere far beyond our eyes. I do remember it rather distinctly. That day was different. That day I heard two voices laughing, only one of which I recognized.
You never saw as I watched from beyond the swaying trees. That stranger was beautiful, with her long dark hair and golden skin. She looked like all the things you had always wished to have With every flick of her wrist, you both laughed as rocks danced across the water and splashed into ripples. It was then I knew this place was changed, forever. The birds no longer seemed to sing. The rapids grew all too quiet. I could only watch the two of you. After all, who was I to disturb your happiness? Who was I to deny your invitation to a stranger? A stranger that you stared at with needing eyes, a stranger who clung to you with a playful grip. I could not understand why you brought her with you. Perhaps it was the reason for which I had brought you there all those years ago.
So much time would pass me by, and that place became foreign to me. The winter brought with it, a new year and new growth. No matter the limitless changes in the forest, to me, that place was stuck in time. I could see the wind moving the leaves, but I could not feel that once comfortable chill. Instead, I felt shivers that you had once warded off. I went to that place many more times, hoping I was wrong. It was no use because I could no longer see the vibrant flowers or smell their intoxicating smells. Instead, all life there seems sad and fading. Many months passed before long, many beautiful girls would accompany you to the secret place. Then one summer, you would stop coming altogether. It was the first time our enchanting forest completely lost its magic. It was the sunsets that showed me the truth. My shadow was cast and cast alone. Now I am with nothing more than fleeting memories. Then one day, you moved away with one of those mesmerizing strangers. I could do no more than stay behind with the silent rapids and song-less birds.
Only now, in my much older years, do I recall that lovely place. Only now can I hear the animals again and smell the aroma of lavender. Yes, sometimes I wish you were there with me again, but most times, it is just okay enough. The forest had truly taught me about loving and missing a friend. It is true that now I am much too old to venture to that wild place. Only in my mind do I return there on the nights I remember your face. Only in seclusion does my mind wander back to that sacred location. It is true indeed that most nights, I return to our once secret place.
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