Posts Tagged memories

She was a handsome woman. Intelligent, well traveled, with a quick wit that either left the room reeling with laughter, or in quiet contemplation; regardless, whenever she was present things were never of the norm.

She’d traced our family history to Venice and beyond, most proud of the fact that we shared the same bloodline with Austrian composer, Franz Schubert; and rightfully so. Much like our famed ancestor, she too was a great lover of the arts; heavily involved in theatre, she studied and composed music, as well as being a poet and playwright, she was also a teacher by trade.

She only entered our lives at the very end of her own, but the impression she left on me would be a lasting and profound one. She was quite well-to-do, with a penchant for platinum and diamond jewels of all sorts and sizes. These were pillaged, pledged and pawned upon her demise and each time I saw one of her precious pieces gracing the finger or neck of another, it overwhelmed my young mind with fury. I was only twelve at the time, but even so, it just felt wrong to me.

My grandmother insisted that I take her circa 1930’s dressing table with matching gold chair and I was delighted beyond words, as it was truly a remarkable piece that exuded feminine flare. Much to my delight, they hadn’t bothered to empty it of anything other than her jewels, and so left the drawers filled with all her personal papers. This is where the true treasure was to be found.

The story of her life; compiled and preserved in photos and words, neatly organized in a beautiful old leather portfolio. I keep it in my office gracing the shelf that holds my own stories and take it down from time-to-time, just to reconnect.

I came across this nostalgic little pamphlet today, published January 1st, 1926 by the M. Stein Cosmetic Co. in New York and thought it worth sharing. It’s good to look back every now and then; for sometimes in going back, it’s the only way to move forward.

Click images to enlarge

She’s dying and she knows this – as do I.

Little by little, throughout the past years, her mind has been subtly slipping; reaching the point that she now grasps for shreds of memory, to remind herself of the life she has lived, in desperation to stay alive. But as she sits in dark silence, traveling back through the halls of her mind, the doors she once barricaded, suddenly flung open wide; revealing visions she hasn’t the strength to fight against. Her truth revealed, no longer disguised.

And while she struggles to forget, the connection the universe has made between us, is allowing me to remember.

There was always something about her that I didn’t trust; from as far back as I could remember. An underlying feeling of unease and uncertainty, mingled with fear that always lingered whenever I was in her presence, but only when we were alone. For whenever another was near, the feeling of empowerment overwhelmed me; as if at last I had the upper-hand, in the unknown, unnamed battle that raged between us. A protective barrier that allowed me to breathe easy, knowing she couldn’t hurt me, wouldn’t dare make a move, until we were alone again.

At some point I learned to control my mind, filter the wickedness and divert my attention; for I recall entering her home in what can only be described as a trance-like state; focusing my attention on one or two particular things; visually pleasing happy places, where I remained throughout the duration of my stay, offering no reaction; as everything else outside my focus, appearing as a grey misty haze.

That’s when she knew she had lost control. Forced to shift her position, she showered me with gifts, bribed me with money; in an attempt to buy my love – or perhaps for reasons much deeper, more cynical. Gifts given as sentimental gestures that never meant a thing to me; and me believing there was something wrong with me; because I felt nothing, when I thought I should have been grateful.

I never wanted to believe the stories of her cruelty that I was told; rising up and lashing against them; giving the perception that I was somehow protecting her. I now know that it wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe them – I simply didn’t want to hear them, for fear they would dredge up the stories all my own. I wasn’t protecting her – I was unknowingly protecting myself.

She is dying and she knows this – as do I.

I will not shed one single tear, when her final breath is drawn – but simply take a deep, cleansing breath of my own and close that chapter of my life forever.

I remember your face
That look in your eyes
How many times you asked
Was I sure this is right

Some things
Are hard to remember

Some things
You never forget

Memories fade
Blown with the wind
Of times that never
Will be again

Still I’d like to
Drive with you
Down that old
Country road

Where it all started
Where we first
Came together

He fought cancer all alone and won the battle, at the tender age of twenty-one. He never knew who his real father was, and refused to bond with the string of husbands he watched his mother marry and divorce. He did a five year stint in Leavenworth Penitentiary, for a crime that he swears he did not commit; and vehemently denied the atrocities his mother claimed happened to him there.

His demons were dark, blacker than my own, and yet I had glimpsed the light inside of him and believed my love could save him. But no matter what I did for him, or how much I supported and loved him, in truth he was never happy.

Always on the move, never slowing down; unable to reach that place of stillness, where all was right and everything calm; that plateau of normalcy I so desperately sought; as if something incessantly gnawed at him from the inside, attempting to break out. And so he self-medicated, with illegal drugs, while my vice of choice was still just caffeine and nicotine.

I supported his habit for the simple fact that when he reached that altered state of consciousness, he seemed genuinely happy and somewhat at peace; but of course his drug-induced euphoria never lasted and if there wasn’t an alternative when one drug ran out, there was sure to be hell to pay.

I followed him to the ends of the earth and back, but wherever we landed it was always the same; determined in his quest for peace, believing he might just have found it, until he looked around and found himself there; reflected in the mirror, starting the madness all over again.

I left him, after a tumultuous decade of heartache and pain; worn to nothingness, afraid of my own shadow; having lost complete sight of myself, somewhere along that darkened path. I would have continued on, probably forever, had I not come to the realization that I loved my self, more than I loved him, and that I had underestimated the power of his demons, at the price of my own sanity.

Time passed, spent apart, as I picked up the pieces of my shattered existence; attempting to reassemble myself, with worn shards left of my soul, no longer fitting as they should and a few missing altogether. But I forged the pieces that remained and over the years ritually polished away the corrosive patina, until I was able to bask in the warmth of my own light.

For a time he remained on the outskirts, afraid to let go completely, for I was the only one he had, in his whole god-forsaken world; and for a time I kept him at arm’s length, just so he knew that in spite of everything, I still did care. And then he showed himself one night at my door…

The storm was raging, hurricane warnings and gale-force winds whipped at my little cottage by the sea; a sanctuary I created all my own, darkened that night, more by his presence than the actual storm. I could see the desperation in his eyes as he begged me to let him in, and like a fool I stepped aside and allowed entrance.

He threw an arm around my neck and kissed me on the cheek, as his pack fell off his shoulder and landed with a loud thud on the floor. He bent down and started rummaging through, searching for something only he knew; then coming up with a leather box in his hands; thrusting it in mine, instructing that I hide it.

“What is this,” I demanded to know, he looked up from his crouching position with a pistol in his hand, stuck it in the back of his pants as he rose to face me and told me there was no time to explain, “Just trust me,” he said.

His appearance shocked me, when finally I looked at him fully; haggard and worn, as if he’d just staggered in from the threshold of death’s door. It had been seven years with no contact and my mind whirled with the possibilities of where exactly he’d been, obviously up to no good.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got to get out of here, but I’ll call you in a few days and tell you where to meet me.” I looked at him dumbfounded, until someone began pounding on my front door. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard on the mouth then vanished through the patio doors, as the front came crashing in.

Large men dressed in black, brandishing guns stormed into the room; too many to count, as one walked up to me and snatched the box from my hands, demanding to know where the little son-of-a-bitch was hiding. I buried my head in my hands and started to cry, unable to believe this was actually happening. The big brute of a man led me to the sofa as the others disappeared into the back of the house, searching, but coming up empty handed.

The brute was rambling about the seriousness of the situation without giving any details. All I heard were a few choice words, as the pounding in my head raged to the storms proportions. “He couldn’t have gotten far,” I heard one of them say, as another dumped his pack and its contents scatted across my floor. And that’s when I saw it; the pewter frame with my picture still in it; the one he’d taken when we first met; carried with him, as if a prize possession or talisman.

Several of the men left, while three remained and made themselves comfortable in my home. After a few hours when it was clear I wasn’t going to try to escape, they agreed to let me lie down in my bed; but only after they removed the phone from my room and instructed me not to close the door.

I went to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, trembling from the cold that now chilled my very soul. I yelled out and asked if I might please have a shower, and after a moment’s hesitation they finally agreed. Numbly, I made my way across the room and entered my bath; the smell of lavender assaulting my senses. I breathed deep and exhaled slowly, as I pulled back the curtain to turn on the water; and there he was, crouched in my tub with a finger to his lips, telling me Shhhh.

My heart pounded as if it would explode from my chest, each beat echoing in my ears, at the thought of us both ending up dead, at the hands of the madmen camped out in my living room. I wanted to ask how he’d gotten back here, what the hell was going on, but he pulled me to him and hugged me close; his wet clothes dampening my own, the smell of his clean wet hair a familiar scent that threatened to transport me back, but there was no time; no time for thinking at all, as he thrust the pistol in my hand that was wedged between both our chests.

His breath in my ear was warm and smelled sweet, as he whispered, “Please just do this one last thing for me,” taking my wrist and turning it slightly, so that the barrel of the gun was pointed directly at his heart. Our eyes locked and held for what seemed an eternity, “If you ever loved me, then please just release me.” My body tremble, as a plethora of emotion consumed me, and I shook my head no, in quick little jerks; trying desperately to grasp just one of the countless thoughts that raced through my mind.

“If you don’t do it, they will; and I’d much rather die at your hand, knowing it was a final act of love, than die in vain from an act of revenge.” The tears spilled over that had welled in my eyes and burned hot as they ran down my face. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I won’t.”

He grasped my hand that held the gun, while his other stroked the back of my head with urgency. “Don’t you see, it’s all I’ve ever wanted; to be free of these demons; but if I do it myself, I’ll forever be damned; if they do it, I’ll never be able to leave this place; but if you do it, if you take this life from me, you’ll set me free. I’ll be a peace; finally.”

“Oh, God,” I cried; as my head fell back and I closed my eyes to the heavens above. I felt his lips warm upon my neck and heard him whisper, “I love you,” at the exact moment I felt his finger press gently down on mine. The shot rang out and deadened all my senses, as he slowly slipped away from me and down into the tub; the gun resting on his chest, covered in his crimson blood.

I heard myself screaming, “NO!” as I frantically fought to recount that final second. I could still feel the warmth of his touch on my hand, still smell his hair and breath, but could not decipher if I, he, or we, had pulled the trigger and set him free. They suddenly surrounded me and filled the room, as one of them lifted and carry me away. I struggled and fought, not wanting to leave his side; my last memory of that moment was their black shadows reflecting in the glass of the mirror.

I woke three days later in my own bed, hooked up to an IV. The moment I stirred, a nurse in a starched white uniform and cap came into the room and without a word unhooked the IV, slapped a band-aid on my arm, gathered all remnants of her station then turned and left the room. I called out to her, demanding an explanation, but by the time I got my legs under me she was already out the front door, getting into a silver and black Rolls limo.

I stood there under the portico and watched until the car was completely out of sight, then turned and walked back inside. Everything was in its proper place, as if nothing had ever happened; but for my ex-husbands pack, sitting in the middle of my living room floor. I immediately ran through the house, into the bathroom and threw back the shower curtain; to find a perfectly polished porcelain tub; empty of all traces.

I went back to the living room and fell to the floor beside the pack. I sat staring at it for a long time, before I found the courage to look inside. I unzipped it slowly and saw the leather box on top of his things. I reached inside and retrieved it with trembling hands and slowly opened the lid, only to find the pewter frame that held my picture, nestled inside. I pulled it out and looked at my own image, as seen through his eyes; my own eyes filled with love and a trace of mischief, smiling happily at him the moment he’d snapped the picture, capturing that look forever, carrying it with him all the way to deaths door.

I put the picture back in the box and stuffed it in the pack, then drug it to my room and buried it in the back of my closet, where it remained for years, untouched; until I moved from that seaside cottage, no longer a sanctuary, but rather an unmarked tomb. I still have the pack in my possession, though it has never again been opened; as some memories are better left untouched, some mysteries better left unsolved, just as some dark deeds are better left unspoken.

© Copyright 2010 by Jill Terry. All Rights Reserved.

I came across his image, alive upon the screen; my breath caught suddenly within my throat, my heart grew heavy, mind suddenly weary, and still I could not look away. For in that brief and fleeting moment, taken completely unawares, I gazed into the shadows of my very soul, remembering what was lost there.

I came across his image, alive upon the screen; my breath caught suddenly within my throat, my heart grew heavy, mind suddenly weary, and still I could not look away. For in that brief and fleeting moment, taken completely unawares, I gazed into the shadows of my very soul, remembering what was lost there.

She doesn’t seek his memory, it just comes creeping; and when it does, that’s all there is.

Its nothing to do with fear or inspiration; building a fan base that was there long before he was; or anything at all for matter of fact. For who would dream of seeking such hurt.

Its simply a means of soul survival; an attempt to heal, her wounds on her own. Purging her being in the form of words; bloodletting her system of his poison, his disease. Being caught in the death trap, he sets and springs.

His desperation for reprieve, amounting to nothing; empty words of apology and pleas of forgiveness. He gobbles her words and his ego grows, waiting for Twitter to tell him there’s more.

I was that girl of the water, of which you spoke; though it wasn’t until later in life that I learned how to actually flow. Much of my youth was spent swimming and fighting against the raging tide. I still bear scars from being thrashed to the bottom by the undercurrent; battle scars of lessons learned, life lived, discoveries made and mistakes overcome.

I never wanted to have children, for the simple fact that I believed the world to be too cruel a place. God had other plans; casting upon and within me, a new life that most certainly saved my own. From that moment, life as I knew it was forever changed; and I realized what a beautiful and glorious place the world truly is; that it’s the people within that are ugly and cruel; those who refuse, or are simply blinded by the illusion of this corporeal world, to see the true magic that surrounds them.

And so for the past eleven years, I have nurtured, cherished and shared my self and my world with my child, and while I will protect him till the end, I will never stifle or try to control the person he is; the little man he has been since day one. For he came to me an old soul, quite set in his ways already; no doubt ready to elevate to the highest plane of existence once his time here is done; teaching me as much about life, love, living, the human condition and compassion than I ever learned on my own.

While he most certainly was a gift given by God, I know that he is not mine to keep, and so inasmuch as it is my responsibility to prepare him for the trials and tribulations of life, provide him with all the necessary tools to grow and flourish into the man I know he will one day become; I have only asked, and will ever ask, but one thing of him; that is to be true to himself.

Thank you for your words that brought me to this place. I needed to be here more than you can possibly know.

Peace,
Jill

He could see how tired she was, that day he happened upon her alone in the café; and though he purposely took his thoughts elsewhere, ignoring her completely, he knew from her body language that he’d once known so well, there was something amiss; and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in her life that was causing such fatigue.

Years ago he’d gone away from her, removed her completely from the equation of his life; but that didn’t stop him, from on occasion, seeing her shadow pass across his wall. Each time it happened, his perception shifting; re-instilling those truths and beliefs he’d discovered while in the presence of her; a presence he once believed was easy to shake, though part of him secretly yearned to hold onto.

While his real life was constantly in the forefront of his thinking, somewhere in the back of his mind lingered the life they had known; that driving light, filled with her laughter, dimmed by her cries, exploding with their passion; bringing something magical to his world of sameness.

His ability to sense her presence from miles away, clouding his memory on sun-dappled days; the one constant, through the years that had remained; though he still wasn’t sure, if what he was feeling was real; or simply his imagination running wild, that caused him to linger, night after endless night. A vigil in the darkness, waiting for and willing her to come.

The rains came, followed by raging thunder and a fantastical lightening show, as he sat in the corner of the darkened room; waiting, watching, hoping; that she would not disappoint. He fell asleep in the chair somewhere around three, waking suddenly as a cool breeze, brushed gently across his flesh.

He opened his eyes and watched in silent fascination; as the misty shadow floated gracefully across the room; then as if willing it to happen, she slowly began to materialize.

She was wild-eyed in her misery, carrying the same tired and worn out expression he’d seen a few days before, etched across her beautiful face. He knew right then that he had called her to him; that she never would have come on her own. His heart overflowing, with the sudden feeling of guilt; for the pain he had caused, because of what together they had done.

He sat up a little straighter, unconsciously clinging to the arms of the chair; gathering courage, he spoke out to her. “I don’t blame you. I know you think I do; but I don’t. I never did.”

She turned slowly, casting her gaze upon him; the veil of her so thin, that he could see right through it. In the blink of an eye, the span of a breath, she was upon him; face-to-face, as they once comfortably lay. She hovered in front of him, weightless; though he could feel her pressing down on him; searching his face, seeking truth in his eyes; as a single tear, sparkling like a jewel, dripped from hers; landing as a raindrop, upon his naked thigh.

He wanted to tell her that he missed her; that he worried and wondered of her constantly. That their time spent together had not been in vain; that a part of her, in his heart, would always remain. And while the words he still could not muster, the one thing she never ran dry of; the truth she saw clearly, in his green aging eyes.

My dreams took me back last night; to a place I haven’t been in over a decade; a place I never imagined my self being, and never want to be again.

Ten years devoted.
Ten years spent.
Irretrievable.
Broken.
Gone forever.

I entered through the familiar front door; the scent that was us overwhelmed and stopped me in my tracks. My eyes adjusted then focused in the dark, as familiar images and shapes appeared before me. I slowly walked from room to room; each containing different objects from various stages of our time together.

Our first living room, with hand-me-down sofa and chair; knick-knacks and pictures, arranged just as they had been. Even the flowers I’d picked from the field; beginning to dry, yet colorful in the blue glass vase.

I walked down the hall and another room appeared; another chapter displayed for my viewing. More of his things mingled with mine; his presence now obvious and prominent. The same wildflowers, faded now, but still beautiful through my eyes; the blue glass vase, a crack now in its side, simply added character, I remember thinking.

There was an entryway that led to a carport; our Tibetan Mastiffs, Marge & Homer, who I secretly called Rhett & Scarlett, obediently on their cushion in the corner. Both in dire need of baths and a nutritious meal; something other than what happened to be on sale. Scarlett looked up at me with those pitiful, sad eyes; as if to ask me why; the single word and loaded question that plagued me at the time; plagued us all. Rhett refusing to acknowledge me; having long since given up on me; that day I lay on the bathroom floor; Scarlett faithfully curled by my side, offering unconditional love and support; while Rhett stood looking from the door, his gaze as if to say, “who’s the coward now?”

There were boxes stacked to the ceiling in the far corner of the carport; waiting to be stored in the attic; something he always promised he was going to get to, but never did. For the simple fact that they contained my things; things I took with me wherever we happened to land; things that were sentimental, things he felt threatened by. And so they sat in that corner, exposed to the elements, until they finally began rotting away.

I remember the day I drug them to the curb on garbage day; one by one. I didn’t even have the heart to go through them; to be reminded of what they contained; to see what treasured possessions had been ruined and lost to me forever. Better to not remember, I told my self.

I walked back inside; looked to my left, then to my right; trying to decide which way to go; how to get out. There was no easy way; not then, not even in my dreams. There was, however, a light at the end of a long, dark hall; which I instinctively moved toward. As I progressed, I passed many more rooms. Some of which I stopped, stood in the doorway of, and gazed at with fond reminiscence; others I rushed past, with nothing more than a glance given. And that one in particular that I would have expected to run right past, I actually stepped into.

I stood just inside the doorway, the light at the end of the hall beckoning, as the scene before me ripped my heart apart; piece by broken piece. Framed works of art that once I had been so proud, hung in precarious positions throughout the room; not out of eclecticism, but sheer necessity; covering holes that had been punched, kicked or gouged in the walls. Markers of his anger, reminders of his horrible temper; hidden in plain sight.

Neon beer signs and alien figurines still made me cringe, and not a single book in sight, for that was nothing but a ridiculous waste of time. The stench of the homemade bong on the table in the corner; my good lemonade pitcher with a bottomless 2-liter bottle stuck inside; brown water and thick repugnant ganja residue covering the sides. The sound he made as he inhaled two full liters of smoke into his lungs, and the desperation in his eyes when he was forced to scrape the sides. The bong disappearing, new paraphernalia taking it’s place; diverting my gaze before the crack pipe and gun materialized.

I looked away, and there on the floor, in the corner by the loveseat, was my favorite Tommy Bahama bag. I walked over and picked it up, slowly unzipped it and looked inside. A half smoked pack of Marlboro Lights, a black and white composition book that I used for a journal back then; half the pages ripped out and the remaining filled with written lies to appease his insecure ego and get him the fuck off my back; little doodles on the pages, where he had left his mark, his way of letting me know he had been there, read my words and that nothing of mine would ever be sacred.

I removed the sparkly silver Lancome make-up bag my mother had sent me, pulled out the compact and opened the secret compartment in the bottom; and there it was, the light at the end of the tunnel; shining brightly in my hand, just as it always had done. I carefully removed the small, aged piece of paper and unfolded it, to reveal the message inside that had kept me sane, given me courage and one day eventually saved my life, quite literally.

“I’ll Love You Forever…”

I carefully refolded the note, but instead of putting it back where I’d found it, I slipped it in my pocket; thinking to myself, that he really does and undoubtedly will…love me forever. Just then I felt his arm slip comfortably around my waist. I turned to look and there he was; my beautiful husband, standing by my side, where he’d been all along, right from the start. I looked deep, into his smiling eyes; filled with happiness and love that would never be disguised.

We were silent for several minutes, as we stood in the doorway and gazed about the room. Remembering those tumultuous years when we’d only just met, the insanity I was living through and his desire to help. I spotted the small pottery bowl I’d made when I was a little girl; musing that it had actually survived. It’s pink, purple and blue hues faded with time. I walked over and retrieved it from its spot of safety, and inside lay the broken shards of my blue glass vase; that I didn’t have the heart to throw away, that was still beautiful, even in pieces, through my eyes.

I handed it to him, but the only thing he saw when he looked inside, were remnants of a broken heart, a shattered soul; in desperate need of healing, and he the one to do the mending; still beautiful, even when broken, through his eyes.

when I woke from the dream I found him curled at my back; two spoons in a drawer, with his arm around my waist. Offering comfort, with me always. Weathering life’s storms and the changing of the seasons.