Easter memories are all secular for me: the egg hunts, asparagus at dinner, and recently, the bloody marys. Yet today I'm feeling nostalgic, and am sitting in a one room church in the woods.
Upon entering, I was struck with the damp smell of old. It's that house in East Hill my mom wanted to buy, that had room upon room, no hallways. It's our house in Oriental, with squirrels in the walls, and pecan trees in the yard. This church smells of a field trip in elementary school, to a house on Seville Square, and the pink and white striped outfit my mother made me.
Right now, the smell is old, it's history, and I find myself wondering how many other people have been missed here. How many lovers gone to war? How many brothers, sons, fathers? Surely no mothers, I think, as I say a silent prayer for my mom.
Written Easter 2006, when my mother was deployed in the Al Anbar province in Iraq. It's still in progress as I'm not quite sure which direction to take it. Feel like it needs a bit of meat.
No comments:
Post a Comment