Me and My Shadow

Daddy and Me

His boots would be sitting by the door; a day's work of sawdust and clay settled on them like the dusting of a first snow. They always fascinated me, those boots. I would silently watch him put them on sometimes, deft, weathered hands moving in a muscle memory dance that would always conquer that complex system of laces and hooks.

But he wouldn't have them on tonight. They would be sitting by the door, a reminder of obligation and worry that held no place in this nightly ritual.

He would have on a pair of boat shoes, shoes that I'd slipped my own small feet into a thousand times, and if his boots represented work and obligation, those boat shoes represented freedom and happiness.

After scooping up some kibble and tossing it into a bucket, we'd make our nightly trek through the backyard, up to the hill where Barney the basset hound would be waiting patiently for his meal. Our journey there would not be ordinary, and it would always be ours.

I'd follow beside him, my smaller steps matching his larger ones in a perfect rhythm, a Daddy-and-Daughter dance always with the same soundtrack.

He'd sing, "Me and my shadow, strolling down the avenue, do de do, do de do."

Every night. Just the same. The sun would be setting, and our shadows would stretch before us, tall and silly, as silly as he and I, singing and strolling and sharing that time together when boat shoes and a basset hound could chase our worries away.

I'm still my Daddy's shadow, always following in his much larger footsteps and remembering that no matter how old I get that will always be true.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

But, Now I See

It’s a surreal experience to sit through the same grandfather’s funeral twice in one lifetime. And yet, here I sit, surrounded by family and mouthing the words of “Amazing Grace” as the pastor strums along on his guitar.

I’m ashamed that I don’t know the second verse of “Amazing Grace,” and when I look across the room and see my grandmother, who has Alzheimer’s, singing along at the top of her voice with every word, it makes me even more ashamed.

Today is a good day. MeMe’s mind is sharp; her eyes are bright. It should be a sad occasion, but instead, it feels joyful and sweet. She seems happy, and that makes us all happy.

My grandfather, MeMe’s husband, has been dead for over sixteen years, but in her damaged mind, he died only recently. His death had been troubling her for a few weeks. She had begun asking Daddy and my aunt Claire daily when the funeral was going to be. One particularly hard day, she was ready to leave for the cemetery when Daddy arrived for his daily visit.

Daddy and Claire finally decided that a funeral was in order, something to put her mind at rest and give her some resolution.

Sitting here now, watching her smile and sing along with hymns that are as familiar to her as her own name, I know that they were right.

Alzheimer’s is a nasty disease. It picks and chooses the memories it destroys, leaving some and taking others without any rhyme or reason.

MeMe has vivid memories of the past. Daddy can ask her about neighbors they had thirty or forty years ago, and she remembers their names and the stories surrounding them. Most of the time, she lives in this vivid past, speaking of her Mama and Papa as if they were in the next room, speaking of her children as if they were still teenagers.

I often wonder where the present fits into this past, because, thankfully, MeMe still remembers the names of those in her present. When I visit, I see the recognition in her eyes, and I feel relieved that we have this, just this one thing that we can all still hold on to. In MeMe’s world grown grand-children and long-dead parents can exist together outside of any physical boundaries of time and space.

It’s a world you could almost envy, if you didn’t know any better.

Today, in this present, her smile is infectious, toothless though it may be. She beams it at all of us and keeps saying, “It’s a shame that something like this had to happen to bring us all together.”

And it is a shame.

We visit the Nursing Home as often as possible. Daddy and Claire are there nearly every day. But it’s hard. Life is moving on in the world outside of those walls that keep MeMe so closed in, life is moving on, and because it is, it’s easy to forget.

Which is pretty ironic when you think about it.

Daddy is constantly reminding us all that the people inside the Nursing Home are still people. They still have hopes and dreams and sadness. They have good days and bad days and days when they might not want to go on at all. They're trapped inside a place that reduces them to nearly nothing if we let it. So we mustn't let it, and thus, he reminds me often that those inside are people just like us.

I have to keep repeating this thought like a mantra when I go down the long corridors of the facility. I make it a point to meet the old eyes of each resident I pass, smiling kindly and offering a softly-spoken "hello" and "how are you."

Yes, it's hard to go there. It's hard to see those people trapped. It's hard to see MeMe in a tiny little room that's shared with another resident, a virtual stranger, whose name constantly escapes MeMe’s damaged mind.

But on days like today, when off-key church hymns fill the stale air and make an otherwise sad place happy, when MeMe smiles like she used to, and you almost forget where you are, it’s easy.



Joining up once again with the fabulous writers at yeah write. Click the button below to read some truly wonderful writers and don't forget to return on Thursday to vote for your five favorite posts.

Woven

I have seen four generations of you.

The first made me. With strong and sure hands, he crafted me from white oak and memory.  A humble artist weaving and twisting, weaving and twisting. Until, there was me.

The second watched from a distance as I was made, too busy to pay me much mind. Fiery in spirit, she had her own sense of self and creativity. She was the force to be reckoned with, the dreamer with too many dreams and too much passion.  I would never know her so well as I knew her child.

I was gifted to him, the child of the second, the beginning of the third. And I took my place in his home, where I watched his family grow. At first, it was just me, him, and his wife. Then there were children, a dog, and a cat. Years passed, and I grew older. I watched this third generation provide for and love his family, and I knew that the love and pride that had been woven into me by the first was present in the third.

Looking back, I have lived a full and long life, though my handle has worn thin, and my splits are stained with time. Recently, I became a gift again and now find myself at home with the fourth. She looks at me often and with pride. I’m placed on a handmade stool in a prominent spot, where I watch her weave much like her great grandfather did so many years before. This fourth generation doesn’t weave wood to make baskets. Instead, she weaves intricate tales with a voice that is her own…and yet, she is a part of them all.

She has the artistry and skill of the first. The passion and dreams of the second. The love and pride of the third. She is you, the fourth.

I have seen four generations of you. I have witnessed the stories of your family, woven together through time and through me, a flawed and sturdy white oak basket, a holder of memories. 

Author's Note: This was written for the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: Personification. It went like this:

Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?

The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”

This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.

The white oak basket my Papa made long before I was even born has wanted to tell its tale for awhile. I thank Write on Edge for giving it the chance.