The prompt for writing this piece was: “Quick Write: Write about a moment you left something or someone behind. How might someone else tell that story differently? How would your story change if you told this memory 10 years from now?” I have enjoyed writing a variety of different pieces in different genres this year.
. . . . . . .
I was born in the middle of the Canadian Rockies, half an hour from the majestic gates of Banff, under the awe-inspiring peaks and majestic cliffs of the mountains. This was my happy place. I spent the first few years of my life exploring the outdoors in the fresh mountain air and figuring out my world under the unique and ever-changing sky. Many of my most vivid memories and interactions come from these years.
After many life-changing circumstances, a new baby brother, a changing economy, a flood that destroyed much of the surrounding area and required hundreds of hours of repair to my first home, propelled my family to climb the cliffs and accept the other side--beyond the mountains and under the large prairie sky. Unlike in The Sound of Music, we did not escape by night, travelling over rocky cliffs. The day we left was sunny with ever-shifting chinook clouds swirling above the cliffs. I was just about six. I don't remember the actual moment when the mountains disappeared from our view, but I remember the last moments when that place was my world. When my bedroom still had star constellations and my tiny Calico Critters were each tucked in their creative arrangement of beds. The feel of the soft blankets I used to tuck them in. When I sat on the couch or freely ran barefoot out the door to the mountain backing yard, that had caught my toddler tumbles and introduced me to the concept of prickly, dark green grass. I remember the last picnic, the crunch of the Voortman strawberry wafers that I had begged my mom for in the minuscule local grocery store tasted on the banks of our rocky little creek. The last few days of church, our blurry community who’s names have mostly disappeared into the abyss of my memories, the warmth of their love remains. The last tromp to the playground down the street, the smell and sound of the wind, so unlike any other wind I have known in my face, the last time on those yellow swings. The promise of returning to visit. The tears that seemed so contradictory to the perfect summer day, the blue, blue sky.
Each of my family members tells this story somewhat differently. Each of us wrestled with leaving our favorite home in different ways. My mom remembers the difficulties of those days more than I do. She had a newborn baby (the house flooded during the big flood that came through Calgary when my brother was less than three months old, and we sold it soon after). She entertained us and inspired us by showing us the vast nature around us. She did this while contacting contractors, ordering materials, and making sure that we all stayed fed. My dad has other memories altogether; he remembers getting the phone call that his dad had a heart attack on the other side of the country, in the midst of grappling with extensive flooding from a province away. Those in the community around us remember snatches of these days, holding my brother, coming to our house, helping rebuild the basement of our mountain home, and praying for us. They remember details I don't and often share how these days fit into their lives, what their kids were doing, and how old they were. When I tell this story to my friends today they often comment that if we hadn’t moved I would never have met them sharing their gratitude that we did move.
Ten years passed. Now it has been eleven. The memories aren't so clear; I don't remember exactly how old I was or precisely the emotions that cascaded over me. I mostly only remember the sweet memories of sight and sound and taste and smell and feel. Even more so, I remember the overarching memories and themes. The feeling of being so loved, the feeling of trying to be brave for my sister, the impression of sadness as I said goodbye to each room. The hopes and dreams that I still longed for in that place.
Eleven years later, I returned, not for the first time and hopefully not for the last. The playground looks smaller than I remembered. The houses have been painted, and the creek bed and bridge industrialized. My favorite childhood pictures from there are now joined by grad pictures from the same spot. I don't fit within the monkey bars anymore, but I can hang from them for longer. My brother is not a baby quietly sitting on my dad's lap; now he is jumping on the play structure in the background of my pictures. Our dearest friends from those times, still close friends, some of our closest, don’t share the same lives; our paths have gone different ways, and we meet each other, enclosing the gulfs that separate our lives from the top of each of our mountains.
I hope that ten years from now I will be able to return to this special place. Maybe I will have a family of my own to share it with. Maybe I will have a daughter of my own to show the mountains to and start the pictures over again. Maybe I will be by myself or with friends. I really don’t know what this place will look like in ten years, but I do know that the special memories of these times will be just as dear to me and that wherever God leads me in the next ten years, He will never leave me or forsake me.