I’ve been feeling a bit nostalgic these days. I’m not quite sure what has brought it on but perhaps it has a lot to do with my contemplating moving out of the village that I live in. I’ve also been missing my mother a lot this week and it’s still very hard to deal with those feelings.
The house I live in, an old home I inherited from my grandparents, is slowly falling apart and some nights I’m just ready to walk away from it without looking back. But lately it seems like the house and the property know I’m leaving and are giving me reminders of my time that I spent here as a child. Almost like it’s a parting gift.
The first reminder was how the neighborhood smells. I can’t describe it at all but it’s something that I’ll always associate with how I knew I was in Port Chester by the smell. Those of you who know Port Chester can stop your snickering. I mean this in a good way. It’s the way the trees, flowers, and grass smell all combined into one. I just remember being out for a run and it hit me. I haven’t come across that scent in a very long time and it did make me stop running just so I could inhale it and embed it into my memory.
In many ways it’s like how I remember the certain scents of El Paso, Texas where I grew up. There is nothing like a scent of an approaching rain storm in the desert or the smell of the greenery and lakes and ponds in Hiwasse, Arkansas.
Then there are the roses that bloom every summer in my yard thanks to absolutely no care from me. My grandmother planted these roses and took care of them on a daily basis when I was little. Yet somehow without me doing a thing they come back year after year amazing strong and vibrant. In some ways it’s like my grandmother is still caring for them. One of my favorite things is when I’ve finished a run and am heading home and I can see their bring petals welcoming me. It is incredibly comforting.
Perhaps the most wonderful and hardest memory to hit me happened last Sunday. I had just arrived home on my brand new bike and went to my back yard where I sat down for a bit to send a text message. When I looked up, that’s when I saw them — raspberries. They haven’t been in the yard in decades.
Growing up, my grandfather would go out by the vegetable garden behind the shed and bring in small cupfuls of raspberries every day. They were most wonderful smelling and tasting fruit you could imagine. After he died in the early 90s so did the raspberry bush. Then this summer they have reappeared and not where they used to grow.
Through tears I picked as many as I could and smelled them. It was the most wonderful smell in the world and now everyday when I come I pick my raspberries and am so grateful for some of the things this house and area is giving me right now. It somehow knew that I needed these perhaps final and good memories of the house instead of the bad ones.
I still don’t know what my final plans are but I’m glad I’ve got these few reminders of how much fun and joy I had spending time here.