An Honest Memory

As fondest memories go, they exist few and far in between for me. But there have always been objects and sounds that prompt me to reflect back on another time. There was not an overly happy family life, but all it’s members were in tact. There were parents and children and the extended aunts and cousins that accompany that.

I was always beyond timid. There were moments when strangers might not have even known that I had the ability to speak. But I never felt that was my gift, nor did it feel like there was ever any real interest in me. And so my words were few and my interactions with others-even less.

Then, as I walked a long, arduous trek to the grandmother’s, I flashbacked to another trek, another house the grandmother resided at. There was a dark living room with classic furniture that seemed to exude some type of luxury. It was not the rich luxury one would imagine. Rather, it was a luxury of hidden money, unearthed riches. The dining room was fit for a king who would enjoy cigars. The dark leather made me think that somewhere was a bell that one would ring for a servant. But the upstairs took on a different note. There were rooms with furniture that told no real story. It’s history seemed to disappear as one climbed the steps.

But one light colored, wooden trunk brought to birth the smell of something I cannot recall. From inside I would sit, expecting to hide away from the habitants of grandmother’s house. The trunk clothed me with secret safety although there were holes made out of wicker that I could see through. Whenever one particular person roamed the upstairs hallway, I would make sure and hold my breath and pretend to be invisible.

Grandmother’s house and that trunk has resurfaced over the years in my mind. And while I tend not to spend very long reflecting on its contents and events, I hold onto what I learned. You can never be fully protected if there are holes surrounding a surface. So, I started to value the importance of honesty. I remember that grandmother’s house was full of lies and to keep a lie, you have to continue tearing away from your soul. Lies are like little holes that encircled that wooden trunk and created a secret world that eventually tore a part every vestige of sturdiness that otherwise would have been held together through its strength. And so as the years have passed by for me, I've vowed this one thing only-that I will be me, regardl of the price and honesty will be the trait that I pass onto my children.