Woodgrain Goodbye's

The crickets seemed to echo my heart beat. Their uneven cries into the field reminded me of a tattletale. A mean little girl in my kindergarten class who would tattle to the teacher whenever you did the smallest crime. The reeds whipped my skin as I crossed the marshes that my sister and I had roamed and explored since we were small. I thought briefly of a lullaby Margie used to sing to me about a moon and a river guiding me home.

I see the moon,

And the moon sees me,

And the moon sees the one

That I want to see

So God bless the moon

And God bless me

And God bless the one

That I want to see

I fight the urge to hum the familiar tune to myself as the small cottage reveals itself from the marshes. I wait silently in the reeds until the lights go out. This used to be my house. That used to be my porch. That window with all nails on the sill? It used to be my sister Keelie’s. My mom nailed it shut when she kept sneaking out at night. I knew every creak and splinter in that house.

The thing was, it was no longer mine to catalog and cherish.

It was a quick sale after my grandmother, Margie died. My mom ran off, for good probably, and I was alone. I couldn’t keep up the taxes, not on a server's salary.

A younger couple bought it. They screamed hipster with their boxy vintage glasses and Japanese t-shirts. The lady, they said they didn’t believe in marriage, said she loved the prospect of the old south. The symbolism, she said, was poetic. The only thing poetic about St. Stephens, SC is the current in the waterways and the cadence of generations stomping down those of us who never feel like we can really leave. Usually people who romanticize the deep south are ones that never grew up here. Their version isn't a real one, and they usually pay for it. It’s like looking at the beach without the sand. Sure, it’s a pain and gets everywhere. It itches, and scratches, and you can never seem to get rid of it. But where would the waves land without it?

Finally, I see the couple ride off on their bicycles into the night. I shake my head.

I’ve only been back here once since I sold it several months ago. I only made it to the porch before I cried and ran. It felt like the house was shunning me. As if I betrayed it somehow.

I waited a few more minutes to make sure they left nothing behind and caught me trying to break into my old house. I still have a key, and about ten ways into that house without one.

It’s been exactly a year. I came here to say goodbye. To help me let go or something. As if there is such a thing. There is no last goodbye, not to anything, not really. Even if you never see that person or place again, the memory lives inside forever.

When the porch creaks in the same spot, it’s almost enough to put me over the edge. I slowly opened the door and entered the place I was born, and a big part of me died. My shadow was really a ghost, attached to its past.

I can’t decide if it’s yelling in a scolding, but loving way, or if it’s screaming at me as if I betrayed it.

I cross the threshold and instantly regret coming in here.

Nothing is the same. The furniture doesn't belong to my family, some kind of crocheted ottoman replaced the stack of blankets and quilts that sat in a basket by the couch. My grandmother's countertops, the ones I learned to both bake and write at, were replaced by a smooth white granite. A purified, redeemed blank slate. I made my way through the home, desperately trying to find my family in the wood. The wood was the same. There were fresh coats of paint over some of it, but the wood remained. Wood grains told stories with their lines of memory. I went to run my hands over each banister. The idea was to waltz through each room and remember, maybe cry a little and then let go.

Before my hand touched the first door frame, the door unlocked. The lights came on, and I heard gasps.

“What in the world?” asked the husband. His man bun was sagging, and he looked like he could use a cheeseburger. His cheekbones were too sharp.

I didn’t run. Maybe I should have.

“Dianne?” he called, not taking his eyes off of me. My hand still hovered in midair. I had touched none of the wood yet. I had embraced none of the memories.

The wife walks in carrying an air of patchouli with her.

“Oh!” she says, startled. Her black painted fingernails hit her chest as if she really was scared. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I am grateful for the interruption. It broke the trance of the past. If we don’t get out of that cyclone, then we could miss our stop to Oz and just encircle for the rest of our lives; going nowhere but around the same things we can never change, and can never forget.

“Valarie?” she asks. “Isn’t that your name?”

She talks to me as if I’m a wild animal. Small and gingerly.

“Should I call the police?” asks the husband.

“No, no,” she says. “I’m sure she’s not here to rob us. Are you?”

“Of course not. I just came to you know, see if it felt the same. To say goodbye, I guess,” I say not meeting their eyes. I don’t want them to see my truth.

They seem to be pleased with this.

“I’m done now. I’ll get out of your hair.” I make my way around them back towards the front of the old house. I don’t let myself touch anything. It could get under my skin and never get out. Suddenly my pace quickens, as if something is behind me I can’t see.

“Valarie, you can stay-” Diane begins.

I don’t stick around to listen. I hit the ground running as soon as I crossed back over the threshold, not daring to look back.