As my mother and brother step inside the Woodhaven Park residence for one last time, the once and past dream home of my parent’s, I am standing in the UPS Store in Wytheville. Joe is busy getting my print order together. He explains that he is not happy with the quality because there is some ghosting going on, barely perceptible smatterings of ink probably caused by the printer rollers. I try to explain to him that my letterpress-style poster design lends itself to a bit of grit, but instead I find myself telling him that my childhood home is about to be sold.
I tell Joe that “it’s all good.” And it is.
I tell Joe that it seems to be affecting me profoundly and that I am glad I am not there to witness the turning over of keys and signatures.
I am glad that I am not there to take one more last look at the trees, the paths, or the spot where my father passed away.
I tell him that I have been waking up with night sweats, quaking at the idea of muscle memory. Isn’t that photograph that I made – the one from Upstate New York that rocked my world so much that before entering college I switched majors from anthropology to photography – isn’t that image sitting on the floor by the bookcase in the upstair’s family room? Isn’t my grandmother’s handwritten cookbook in the box labeled “Nanny” that is sitting on the second shelf from the left in the unfinished portion of the basement? Isn’t my old wedding dress still in the closet on the second floor?
No.
No, most of these things are gone, found in new places, and sometimes with new people.
Joe seems to get all this and I am grateful for his compassion and kindness.
My mobile phone rings. It is my mother. Do I know if Avon perfume bottles are worth anything these days?
I tell her I am on my way to a meeting, but will use the phone to check the eBay status if she likes. She tells me she will just take the bottles with her. There are still a few items in the house that she and my brother are collecting before they sign the papers that change our lives forever.
And the forever is promising, right? My mother now lives in a small, charming cottage near my old college town and is close to my brother. My brother can have some of his life back (as can my sister-in-law), who have diligently spent a large majority of weekends this past winter moving my mother’s belongings out of the house and two hours more north. Perhaps now they can rest a bit. And me? Well, who knows. I will continue as I have, continue making images, continue writing…continue complaining, and well…just continue.
I think about a recent encounter with a soon-to-graduate college senior. When I asked her what is next after graduation, her response, after telling me see needs to get a job, was that she needs to grow-up. At the time, I thought, “Oh, Student X, do we ever really grow up?”
I look at my phone. I am five minutes late for my meeting. I say a hasty goodbye to Joe and head out to Cinnamon Sage Bakery, have a cup of coffee and debate the logistics of community art. My mother will sign her name until she no longer ever wants to give anyone an autograph and then she and my brother will celebrate over shrimp cocktail and lobster-topped baked potatoes.
I will quietly toast my mother, my brother, and my sister-in-law with my Negro Modelo and lime before finishing the evening meal of chips and salsa. I will go to bed and I will wake-up today.
