Random Memories

In this Universe

Whenever I try to get a grasp on my life, it just seems to coalesce as a ball of silly putty. The more I try to make it fit, the further its warp and weft stretch out of shape.

Perhaps if I explained . . . But I don't think it would help. You have been warned.

As I stepped from the car my ears were assaulted with the rattling buzzing of cicada wings. The stars shone brightly through the inky blackness of the sky overhead. My skin relaxed as the warmth of the night air embraced me like a well-worn quilt. My stomach churned as I stood looking at the small yellow house where I was to finally meet my grandparents.

Before I begin my story, I feel as if I should let you in on a few details.

I was raised far from the place I was born. My earliest memories involve huge piles of autumn leaves, gigantic trees, and a warm and wriggly little brown puppy with soft ears and a very wet tongue.

I remember a feeling of safety and security as a tall man wearing dark green clothes lifted me off the ground and swung me up to dangle high above his head. He lowered me to his face and I burst into giggles as he blew loud noises that tickled my tummy. Then he disappeared.

I vaguely remember long car drives and spending nights in small rooms and dark basements. The feeling of safety was gone.

A white fireplace swarming with little black ants is the next memory. I would watch as my mother vacuumed them up, only to have to repeat the action the next day.

Little red spots with white tips all over my body itched and itched. My mother forbade me to scratch them and covered each one with goopy pink liquid. The itching stopped for a while but always came back. It seemed to last forever.

I grew up with five brothers, all younger than me. I quickly learned to defend myself, especially from the oldest one. His temper could flare so suddenly and so intensely that we all learned to find hiding places if we knew what was good for us.

The day he came after me with a hatchet was the day my parents sent him to live with my grandparents.

There was peace in our home for a year. Well, relatively speaking, there was.

That brings us back to the present. We have come to bring him home. The churning in my stomach refuses to settle. I hold my breath as the front door begins to open.

Standing in the open doorway was a short, plump woman with red hair and glasses, dressed in a faded blue dress with a white ruffled half-apron. Her face looked as if she didn't smile very much, but I recognized her from the picture which hung on the wall back home. Behind Grandma stood a tall, thin man with dark hair wearing a blue jumpsuit with a silver twist-buckle fastening the belt. His grin lit up his face and brought a sparkle into his tired brown eyes.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come on in!" Grandma called. "For goodness sake, you kids look like a bunch of stair steps" she teased as we trooped past her. Grandpa just stepped back and gave out hugs as we passed him into the house.

Not one of us said a word, we had been warned by our father to be on our best behavior. For us kids that meant shut up, sit down, and be still. Quietly we sat down on the couch - except the littlest. At three years old there was no repressing him. He ran straight to where Grandpa sat in his easy chair and climbed into his lap. Grandpa moved him to sit on one knee and started to jostle him in a makeshift horsey ride.

"Don't you get him all riled up now," said Grandma. "It's late and these kids need to get some sleep." She pointed out the bathroom and led us to where some pallets had been made up on the floor of the spare room. "Now, I don't want to hear a peep," she warned. "I'll see you all in the morning."

I lay awake on the itchy blanket as my little brothers sprawled out and slept. I still hadn't seen the brother we had come to pick up. I couldn't get my stomach to settle as I listened to the quiet voices of the grown-ups in the living room.