My Very First, (and only) Very Short Story

I can’t remember her face or the sound of her voice. But I remember her hair. It was long and silky and when she bent down to pick me up or hold me it would fall forward and brush my face. It was so soft, it smelled good. It was warm. It tickled. 

I don’t really remember when or why she left but the house got darker and it closed in on me. The drapes were drawn and a heavy layer of dust fell over the house and us. We moved slower and the music stopped. I remember waking up and skipping into the kitchen expecting to see her there stirring cinnamon and sugar into the grits because that’s the only thing I would eat. She would be wearing her monkey shoes that I don’t actually remember but I’ve been told that they were Curious George slippers. Instead, I was confronted by a toaster that wasn’t plugged in and a few dishes in the sink. 

I started looking for her when I was a teenager, about ten years after she left. I asked a lot of questions and got very few answers. No one knew anything and what they did know, they weren’t telling. “It’s time to move on.”, “Why are you bringing all this up now?”, “Leave it alone.” Everyone wanted me to do what she had done. 

Every moment of every day since she left, I have been looking for her. I look for her face in the crowd, in line at the grocery store, on the back of milk cartons. Every so often, I will see someone going up an escalator and the hair catches my eye. I follow - every time - just to be disappointed - every time. In my head I know it’s not her. She would be older now and if she was nearby, she would come look for me. In my heart hope lives on. 

We moved. A lot. I cried myself to sleep every night because I knew that when she came back, she wouldn’t be able to find us. I begged, pleaded and bargained to stay in that dusty, old, dark house and each one there after, to no avail. I chased people with long, silky hair up escalators and through grocery stores and crowds in many cities. 

Many years have passed since she left. The silence surrounding her sudden disappearance has grown heavy and tedious. Secrets carry their own burdens and wear away at the soul like the ocean against the rocks. So I went home. I am standing in front of the old house. The curtains are no longer drawn. There’s a fresh coat of paint, a new porch with a swing, and a new mailbox with flowers growing in one of those barrels that have been cut in half. It’s smaller than I remember. A bike is laying on it’s side in the grass and you can see depressions where someone with small feet has run through it, ignoring the sidewalk that wraps around to the back of the house. As I walk around to the back, in search of what I remember as a field for a back yard, and I see it. 

Along the back fence wild flowers are growing so thick that you can’t see what’s on the other side and , in the corner, under the tree with the rope swing, is a small well. Fresh, clear, sparkling water runs and feeds the ivy and flowers that surround it. A small bench beckons me to sit, somehow knowing the new family won’t mind. Someone who was loved very much has been remembered here and the new family has reverently revived her garden. 

After a few minutes, a woman with long, silky hair steps out of the house. She watches me for some time before quietly approaching. Not sure what to do, she sits down next to me. Her hair smells good and as I catch the fragrance wafting through the breeze, she asks if I knew the original owner of this garden. “Not very well”, I say. “But I loved her very much.” 



Copyright 2007