Imprinting Final Memories

Everyone needs a room of their own.

Blue Boy is home for spring break, preparing for the end of his second year of college. Every time I see him I notice markings of maturity. After arriving home, he searched me out in Norway (my writing shed) and conversed with me for a record number of minutes. I don’t recall the conversation, just the pleasure of his being near and talking. Later, he, his mom, and Mowgli drove down to check on the progress of their former house being prepared for sale. Afterward, as they left for the Scottsdale Museum of Illusion, the boys noticed the nearby soaring nets of TopGolf. 

“Is that a new TopGolf?”

“No, it’s the one we always go to.”

“It’s by our house? Then let’s go.”

Blue Boy called me, and shortly Mike and I joined them. Throughout the golf games and into the evening of play-to-the-death Tripoley, the boys laughed, teased, poked, and challenged, as brothers do. “Mowgli misses Blue Boy,” Mike whispered. Yep. I was soaking in the memories, aware that this could be the last spring that we live together in this house.

Two weeks ago, Pancake Tuesday, the evening before Ash Wednesday, came and went quietly here. Mike and I ate pancakes and sausage in front of the television for supper. There were no games, no dog intercepting tossed pancakes or eating the game pieces, no awarding the winner’s certificate followed by the feast of grilled dough, syrup, and bacon. I sent an emoji to the boys earlier in the day with no response, disappointing me that the adopted holiday and my contrived agenda of games held little meaning.

I was eager to get to Chicago and introduce the babies to this pseudo-religious tradition. It is likely that those children will never experience the season of meditation of Lent rewarded with the promise of Easter. Easter will mean egg hunting and toy bunnies. I want to add pancakes.

As I write, outside my window the oranges are waiting to be picked. We have enjoyed quite a few already, the peel thick, the fruit sweet and juicy. Wherever we are, I try to set up a writing space next to a window looking out on greenery. Nevertheless, I will miss this orange tree, the blossoms budding before the fruit is harvested unlike apples and cherries. I am soaking in the experience: solitude in my shed, the green and orange of the tree, the door wide open, the birds chirping, the light breeze stirring the trees to white noise, the occasional barking of a dog. A room of my own.

It may seem we have plans, but the dominos are refusing to shift. Within me the excitement of moving on ferments with the sorrow of leaving until I can’t move. I can’t make decisions. Let me assure myself: I am minimizing my life. The church found a new music director. I haven’t played with the band for several months. I know I need to keep music in my life but resist running into any commitment too quickly. I resigned from writing group responsibilities, freeing time for the writing I want to do, the writing that will require large blocks of time. I have minor health issues I am addressing. Okay, I am moving on, slowly.

Repeatedly my mind returns to the finality of this spring, possibly the final season of perfect weather in a house which was home not for Mike and me nor for ED and her boys, but for the Cornelius clan, the Casa de Cornelius Group Home. The house itself is not one of my favorites, but the memories, the memories are magnificent.