Hostess of Memories

On the eve of another birthday, I’m reminded exactly how long I’ve had the desire to write...

Here’s one of my first pieces that was actually published in a local newspaper.  I was teenager at the time.  Gosh… if only I pursued this dream that many years ago, I wonder where I would be today.

Anyway… the piece is called Hostess of Memories.

The yard was filled with flowers and tall grass that waved in the wind. Hidden behind a tree stooped a little girl who was hunting her cat, which in turn was stalking a bird.  A car's horn blasted somewhere in the distance and the game was over.  In search for another prey, she eyed a butterfly which flew too high for her to catch.  Finally, she reached her destination....

She loved this house.  It was old and breaking down, but it still stood tall and strong.  Everything it touched would excite her.  Even the trees that surrounded her castle were special.  In a tree, she would sit very still on her wooden throne and hear the wind sing to her as the flowers and grass bowed down to her.

Sneaking around the corner, she would creep pass the old man in the rocking chair.  His snoring helped cover the squeaking floorboards under her; but, just about passed him, she would notice that the snoring had stopped.  Embarrassed that she got caught, she would shyly turn around to talk to her grandfather.

When she was younger, she used to be afraid of him.  Hands behind his back, he'd stand above her with his stern eyes piercing through his bifocals.  His gruff voice left her cold and frightened.  As she grew to know him, his eyes turned from stern to tired.  Even his bifocals lost their sharpness.  Now they would silently slip down to the tip of his nose, where they would rest.  He still would stand tall and fearful, but she knew that behind his back he held a box of cookies to be shared.

Hand in hand, they would walk inside.  Their castle was dark and musty.  The only sun that would come in was through the stained-glass window above the stairs.  With this light, the stairs gave off a magical silence that spread throughout the house.  When the house was alive with cousins, uncles and aunts, she would climb these stairs and let sounds of laughter and smells of cooking float over her.

Lying in the colorful shadows, she would spy on her family.  Through the window, she would see Grandpa rocking and nodding.  Her uncles, resting their feet on the shaky banisters, would joke with each other, while her cousins ran around, yelling in the yard.  Soon, she would get tired of being invisible and would run to join the others playing in the yard.

But she liked the house best when it was still and quiet and she had it all to herself.  Alone in the living room, she would climb onto Grandpa's favorite chair.  Bouncing on this green cloud, she'd look through the stack of magazines and newspapers that were in easy reach of the chair.  Hearing Grandpa coming, she would scuttle off the chair and onto the floor.  She would pretend to be hard at work on her log cabin and would steal glances to see if he suspected.  He, in turn, would pretend not to notice her sudden fluster.  Grandpa would sit in his chair, start up a cigar and pick up his paper and glasses.  After a while, he'd put down the paper, lean over and suggest new ways of building the cabin. 

The house was quiet.  All that could be heard was the old clock and Grandpa's quiet coughing.  She loved it here.  She wanted it to stay this way forever.  But it couldn't.  Grandpa died--and so did the house.

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