A memory, a wish, image of home

My mother hands me my bridal bouquet in front of the small stone church. There is a well in front of the church, we are in the hills around the city where it is quiet. There are no cars here, it is like stepping back in time and feels like it is all mine. My mother is wearing a greyish-lavander dress with, grey shoes that tie up on the ankle. Elegant. Her feet are artfully placed so she is poised facing me and the camera at the same time, like she does this all the time. Coincidentally, we have nearly the same short haircut. I tower. She is small and her figure is perfect, she is pretty, smiling beautifully. The bouquet is of 7 large white roses, tied simply with a light green silk ribbon to match my light green dress which is edged with minute green crystals and splays out gently on the ground behind me when I walk across the empty square. The photographer clicks, dancing a circle around us. I wonder how to act naturally, remembering to smile, far stiffer than my mother who is at ease even in a foreign country where she cannot speak the language. No matter, she smiles.

I wish I could cut and paste my life. There are events and time periods that I could conveniently make disappear, but in between there are wonderful people and moments that stay with me, make me smile to remember them and proud of my efforts.

Home. It is more a reel than a specific image. Mentally, I go through the houses I have lived in. Places that I loved, like the rental apartment at the beach for weekend breaks that we kept for nearly ten years. I remember our house in the suburbs when I went to high school and Christmas at my grandmother’s house. A place where I felt safe was a whole city, not a particular house. “Home” makes me think of coming back after being away for a long time and talking with my brother late into the night…sneaking down the stairs at night with my cousins to steal cookies off the back steps that led from the bedrooms down to the kitchen. The stairs creaked as we directed each other where to plant our feet and on which steps to avoid attention-drawing noise.

Connections: My memories are those scenes that still give me joy and that I remember in detail. It seems I may have already done the cut and paste in my mind. Home feels more like people than a building.