Story time

Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining,

but the feeling of being rained upon.

E. L. Doctorow

Copyright ©Far Away in the Sunshine 2010 – 2020

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental. or is it?

The static sound of the needle on the record’s grooves is unexpected and familiar. Music fills the house as it always did in my childhood. It grabs my heart and takes me back to this part of my life buried deep within. Tears flow on my cheeks, my throat aches, and I can barely breathe. I’m eight years old once more. Only this time, in a middle-aged woman’s body. This unexpected truth finally hits; I miss my parents.

Driving along the winding road, I’d dare anyone to locate the well-hidden house unless they’ve been there before. Finding my childhood home feels like the hunt for Pandora’s box. It is my choice; no one forced me to come back after both my parents died. Years of neglect allowed the overgrown vegetation to engulf it in a green blanket. Driving up the short alley, I see it in all its decrepit state. I come here to embrace the solitude of this forgotten house, to let it envelop me so I can learn all its secrets and maybe my family’s secrets as well.

Forgotten memories flood back up. The old house’s walls witnessed much violence, physical and emotional. Years ago, as a sign of silent protest, the faded old tapestry started un-gluing itself on some corners. Harsh childhood memories bring me further down this frightful past. My mind screams: Know the pain, let it go and do this over and over. Closing my eyes allows me to see it all again.

Mother’s nickname for me was: “Mater Dolorosa.” Latin for someone carrying all the pain of the world on her shoulders. It is how I feel right now.

The house keeps creaking the way it always did. Regardless of how much pain I felt there, sometimes there was also love. The misguided kind, the one that reprimands too harshly, strikes too often, and forgets to console. Yet, children are resilient. Now an adult, I want to make peace with the past. I wish to become an observer. I want to try and better understand the circumstances of my traumatic childhood.

Putting my thoughts into action, I am ready to go and visit the attic. A forbidden place, I have always been curious about as a younger child. Looking around, I see the low angled beams and to the left two forgotten suitcases, nestled in the far corner. The attic smells like a second-hand bookstore; Dust and forgotten knowledge well blended, with a light hint of old vanilla. I wonder why when we were children, we were never allowed in this magical place. I can imagine myself spending hours tucked in under the roof beams, reading or writing the way I loved to, as a young girl.

Crawling in, I hesitate a bit before looking into the suitcases. The first one I open filled with old baby clothes, neatly folded as if waiting to be given away or, so it seems. The second one is empty save for a red and white dishtowel. I am about to put it together in the other suitcase when I realize there is what seems like a journal inside. My heart beats faster as I carefully unwrap it. My mouth gapes open as if I am about to open a forgotten time capsule.

“Who has written in there?”

This one hits close to home, and I hope you’ll like. I am open to feedback …

Day 4 of 30