The Place We Called Home

The sticky, vinyl letters were still on the mailbox, faded from the sun and missing a vowel here, there. But they remained, proud and forgotten. Loyal sentries to the only house she called home.

A sudden bap bap bap to the back of her seat made Helen refocus her attention and smile in the rearview mirror. Her son, innocent and mischievous, a dichotomy of possibilities, stretched his toddler converses to make contact with the seat in front of him.

“Nana’s house!” The glee in his small voice burned in her throat.

“You’re right, bud!” she encouraged with feigned enthusiasm, “This was Nana’s and Pops house. Remember the sandbox?” His face was a party, all smiles and light and memories. She let him stay there for a moment, let him remember the lazy summer days and firefly filled nights. The leaves turning from green to orange to red before falling. The quiet of winter settling in.

Helen shook her head clear as thoughts of Thanksgiving and Christmas crept in.

When she was younger, Helen loved the magical time of mid October all the way thru the New Year. She loved the Fall skies, days full of whispy clouds and blustery winds. She used to believe anything could happen on days like that.

On the last evening of October, Jack-O-Laterns would smile and wink their candlelit eyes from front porches as Helen and her siblings asked for treats, giggling at their luck.

When the witches and skeletons retired for the season, the Christmas music began. Helen’s mother would hum Johnny Cash’s rendition of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” as she bustled around the house, her eyes sorrowful, her smile stunted.

Thanksgiving day brought food and family to the table. Helen remembered the way her father moved around the kitchen, turkey and potatoes in the oven, a pint a beer on the counter.

December would arrive, Helen’s favorite time of the year. She and her siblings would make gingerbread houses at the kitchen table, laying out Graham Crackers walls and candy cane walkways. They’d sneak spoonfuls of icing and chocolate while their father decked the halls. As the snow fell, heavy and silent, Johnny Cash continued to provide the soundtrack to my mother’s holiday season. On Christmas Eve, when the house was sleeping and peaceful, Helen would follow her brother and sister down the stairs. Her brother led the way, careful to avoid the creaking steps, ensuring his siblings did the same. They’d tiptoe into the dark living room, the Christmas tree already asleep for the night. Every year, Helen was amazed at the sight of all the presents under the tree. So many, in all shapes and sizes. No one had to tell young Helen the truth about Santa Claus. She’d recognized her mom’s loopy script and her fathers small, block lettering. She still pretended to believe, tho. She was the oldest, and her mother had so much fun signing the gifts: love, Santa.

After Christmas, when the excitement of the season had dried up and retreated into hibernation, a long melancholy would settle over the house with the vinyl lettered mailbox. Memories were of gray skies and t.v dinners. Helen would count the months until Christmas, when her house would feel like home again.

Back in her car with her son, Helen could almost hear the sad, melodious music of her mother’s Christmas.

“You know, I think I heard the ice cream truck. Should we go find it?” She smiled, genuinely, as her son squealed with delight.

With a last glance at the mailbox, Helen shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. She didn’t look in the rearview as she drove away.