Gravity

What is it that holds us in a place so long that makes it so hard to leave? The familiar sights, and sounds and a sense of belonging? Driving by the homes of friends and family -past and present- memories stirred of times shared - inches grown - years passed. Walking in town, accustomed to the dips and turns in the sidewalk- the wave, the smile, the ‘there you are, I see you.’ An unspoken bond, a connection, with those we grew beside, who share that love of home that seems to never fade. 

Morning walks to the end of the wharf, I share a prayer of gratitude to the grandparents who  settled here in this land of beauty surrounded by endless sea, and the parents who worked so hard to keep us here. A prayer for our loved ones, ashes laid to rest in the ever-moving sea and those whose spirits are resting there as well. Of all the places to land, to settle, to dig our feet in- we were the lucky ones. 

I look over the bay toward our homestead with the certain sadness of missing an old friend, the memories still lingering and clinging tightly to the yard, the trees, the cast-iron radiator that warmed our towels for our nightly baths. In the center of the kitchen stood the Formica table and chairs my mom fileted hundreds of pounds of fish to save and buy. It housed the heartbeat of our family-the pages of homework, cookie sheets, jigsaw puzzles, and celebrations. Our washer and dryer stood in the kitchen and were disguised with a tablecloth to serve as our buffet table for holidays and special occasions. Mom would carefully fix half-grapefruits for an appetizer before our fancy family dinners, and trim and serve celery sticks in ice water to preserve its freshness.

I see the old Mix-Master that stood faithfully by on the kitchen counter ready for birthday cakes, chocolate chip cookies and lemon meringue pie. I can see the white mixing bowl spinning as my mom carefully cleared its sides with a spatula. When she washed the kitchen floor, she would place the chairs in a long line in our hallway and we would pretend they were a train taking us to some unknown land. The Corelle-Ware dishes with the green flowered edges, holding a promise never to shatter- worked overtime for our three meals a day. The coming of age marked when our meals were served on a full-sized dinner plate rather than a lunch sized-and when we were invited to sit in a full-size chair rather than the step-up seat. I can still see the cast-iron pot that housed the stewed chicken, the tired cupcake tins and the statue of Mary on the kitchen window sill who watched over us all.

It's remarkable that though our house was sold, the memories were not. In my mind I can draw every room, window, door and the furniture placement. The height chart penciled on the kitchen door frame, the cellarway pencil sharpener where we tested the stamina of our pencil points by writing our initials and other scribbles on the underside of the sheetrock there. The linoleum kitchen floor and Formica counter top-each saved for and treasured. Life, so beautifully simple. 

All is not lost, I end the Long Wharf prayer with gratitude that I am still able to be here, along with my family; my husband, my daughter, my brothers and sisters, my nieces, my nephews and a community that collectively embraces our home, our heritage, our commonalities and our differences. Close your eyes for a moment and remember home. There are those who are here to protect their investment-and there are those who are here to protect their home.