Revisiting the Past

As I walked into the foyer of the deteriorating old house, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Not that it was a bad smell, it was the smell of old books being read by firelight, of old leather, a million baking pies and a field of wild flowers. It was the familiarity of the house itself, the wallpaper on the walls and the countless family gatherings held here at this house. As I walk in, the “library” is on my left; this is Gramps favorite place, his room of conversation and contemplation. To my right is Grams “sitting parlor.” For as long as I remember they would each retire to their respective rooms after dinner to do their own thing—apart but always together. Even though they were a room apart, it was as if they were sitting right next to each other. Standing there in the foyer, I still see them both so real, as if it were just yesterday that I stood here last.
I close my eyes and see gramps sitting in his favorite high backed chair next to the fireplace. I smell the burning wood, and smell the pipe that gramps would smoke while reading to the room, reading to the air, and reading to us. I lay on the leather sofa curled up in one of grams afghans staving off the cool chill of the cold winter air, listening to the raspy growl of his voice as he reads page after page. As I look through the French doors across the foyer, there is gram working on another afghan listening to the wood crackle in the fireplace, as gramps reads on. She seems to lose herself in the story as she crochets row after row.
Her room is so unlike gramps’ room, in that, it is a true “ladies” sitting room. Damask drapes on the tall windows and a settee with matching chairs, antiques that looked like they would break if you even looked at them too hard. Flowered designs are on the walls and the furniture it is all so feminine. Lace cloths and doilies are on every surface; she makes them with her small hands with loving care, beauty and detail. In the center of the room is an antique table, always with a huge vase of flowers on it. The room smells of roses and lily of the valley, a mix of the beautiful flowers from the garden and the scent of her perfume.
The horn honks and pulls me out of my reverie. I open my eyes and take one last look around. No longer is there a fire burning in the fireplace, there is no furniture at all and the wallpaper is curling from the seams and ceiling. The rooms are both empty, except for the dust and debris. The wood floor that once gleamed in the sunlight is gray with dust and cobwebs hang from every corner like party streamers. So many memories, I lock them in my heart and my mind, hoping they will not fade as I turn to go.
As I step out onto the porch, more memories bombard my senses and flood my consciousness. Looking out I see the vast expanse of fields that I used to romp around in my youth. My eyes immediately go to the fence line. Over the fence and through the trees I can still make out the barn in the distance. I run through the high grass of the hay field with the dogs chasing after me as we make our way to the barn to be with gramps. Working side by side with him, gramps would tell me stories of when he was a boy and would help his dad with the work on the farm. A thousand endless days… this beautiful land with its purple and white clover, the trees and flowers blooming signifying the beginning of a completely new life. Brand new shoots poke their tiny green heads from beneath the cool moist soil, as they wonder what they will grow up to be. The blue and white of the sky turning to a darker shade of purple and pink as the day comes to an end. I realize now why I had to come back, one last time.