92 First Avenue

I walked slowly to the house that I had grown up in, and I noticed how it had changed in appearance from my childhood. I eyed the three concrete steps that connected to the sidewalk, that went up across the yard to the front porch. I hesitated, I don’t even know why, but it was an end of an era I suppose.

My sister and brother were already here, their cars parked in the driveway, the way my Mom would have wanted it, so I parked on the street. I visited my mother as often as I could, and I had only one request before I came, that she would leave her bedroom door closed. She thought it was silly, but when you get older, you feel isolated, and you would do about anything for the company, of others. I was not looking forward to the time when I would feel that way in my own life.

As I bounded up the concrete steps and I felt my feet connecting with the concrete sidewalk, and with each step my anxiety grew.This was a sad occasion and it was only made worse by the realization that we were now the senior generation. My fears were suddenly calmed as I saw the front door suddenly open, and my brother and sister stood there with a smile on their faces. They stepped out of the front door and on to the porch, and they both turned and hugged me, and that calmed me a bit, for I knew this would be a somber occasion. We were all here to clean the family home out because we had just buried our mother.

I walked into the house, and I didn't know what to expect. I lived a long way from my mother, a good four hour drive, and I had to use the rest room. As I climbed the steps of the house I grew up in, a nervousness crept over me. I hadn't been here in several months, choosing to go to the hospital and avoid this grand old home I once called home. I remembered the layout, and my brother's room was straight ahead to the top of the steps, the bathroom was to the right,

As I glanced to the left, I saw the open door, that I hadn't seen open for years. It was my parents room, and the flood of memories that it kept hidden. After I finished using the bathroom, I decided to try to see if it looked the same.

It did look the same, as that fateful morning a long time ago, when my mother came into my room that I shared with my sister, and she sat on my bed, and said, "Girls, Daddy got sick last night and died, now get up and get dressed, people are downstairs, and you won't be going to school today."

I remember after I got dressed in my play clothes, I walked out of our room, and glanced at the room, that my parents slept in, and the bed was neatly made, but Daddy wasn't there. I passed that room which was directly across from ours, for many years but I never went in again, and I reached out and shut the door, time after time, year after year.

This time, I walked in, I needed to walk in, after all, I hadn't been inside that room for 50 years, and this is the last time I would have the opportunity to do so.

As I walked through the threshold, I saw my mother's cedar chest, the one I would sit on when the air raid siren would go off. I would sit there on the cedar chest and make believe I was in a real bomb shelter. It bought back a lot of memories, to my surprise, pleasant ones, which I began wondering what exactly I was afraid of all these years.

I was only seven years old, and life was all about riding my bike and double dutch jump rope. I never expected my life to change, at least not until I grew up. The night before, was just like any other, if you would call it that. I had a big fight with my brother, who was seven years older than me, and my Daddy scolded me. That hurt more than a belt, but I don't know how that I would know that. I was never hit with a belt, I didn't come from corporal punishment parents. I did go over to my Dad, who was sleeping on the couch, and said "I'm sorry Daddy". He just replied, "your a good girl". That was the last time I saw him alive.

The flood of memories overwhelmed me, as I remembered wrapping Christmas presents with my mother, and learned how to make pretty bows, and curl the ribbon to make it look especially pretty.

I wondered why I had avoided this room for 50 long years, and then I walked in my old bedroom and glanced out the door into my parents room. There was an image of the empty bed all made up and that morning, when I was seven years old, that made me realize that he would never be lying on that bed again. Then the images of me seeing my father lying on his back sleeping crept over me, and I faced the demon of my own mind, facing once again fifty years later, that he was never coming home again.

I turned around, and grabbed the doorknob and pulled it shut, knowing that I would not be afraid any longer