Braiding

Precursor:

It's not that I haven't been trying to write lately; I have. Maybe the plodding pace of the summer has left me feeling a little lackadaisical when it comes to, well, just about everything, but I've picked up the ole' journal from time to time nevertheless. Anyhow, it seem that regardless, I haven't yet composed anything of real substance this summer, but I've realized this past weekend that my lull in inspiration does not have to equal a lull in posts. Point is, I've been having some computer problems of late, which has motivated me to go through all of my documents and back files up, and in doing so, I stumbled across many, many pieces that I had forgotten about entirely. It's interesting, sifting through all this work from high school, appreciating them in a whole new way (back then, I found a way to loath everything that was inked onto paper from my imagination.) Here's something I wrote in my senior year, when we were studying forms of non-fiction; it's called a beaded essay, because it takes a cluster of ideas and strings them together in a unifying way (as one would in creating a necklace.) I suppose because of this it may feel a little disjointed, but hopefully some sense can be made of it! Here goes:

Braiding

The heirlooms that linger in my space, in my home, are enigmatic, cryptic: they are sphinxes.

The first time I saw them, I was eight or nine, maybe younger. They were like two spokes on the wheels of my bicycle, only healthier in their thickness. Even then, I could tell they were woven by the hands of a basket maker – the three entities of my grandmother’s hair folded into one, three separate strands unified in braids. Such a curious finding to stumble upon; the memory of a lost desire to join the convent. I wondered for many hours, for many days, I wondered about what changed her mind, noting differences between the hair on my own head and her severed hair: both dead, both dull in their tone. The preparation of mind it must take to part with long locks; I can imagine her in front of a vanity wearing clam diggers and saddle shoes, leg shaking like a jitterbug, eyes watching the scissors as though they were ready to start dancing. And I can picture her carefully parting her hair on the top of her scalp and down the back, and then braiding the two sections in the slow, steady rhythm of a waltz. She would cut them away quickly, without lingering, and be left with blunt ends, with no hair to hide behind. I never found out what stopped her from becoming a nun, never got the real answer, only the fantasies: “She met your grandfather and that was the end of it,” my father told me. “No,” my mother said, rolling her eyes like windmills. “That isn’t it.”

It was the typical tourist’s souvenir, the inexpensive take-me-home. A small wooden box with black varnish and doll sized hinges, mother-of-pearl inlay and a depiction of a Japanese tree on top. But the miniature chest did not come home to America empty – it came carrying war – the civilians, the scenery, the expansive ships of the navy, and hollowness. (My grandfather came back with hollowed out cheekbones and a hollowed out soul – the war had stiffened him.) This is how I imagine his homecoming to have played out: he steps over the threshold, present in hand, luggage slung over a shoulder, to nothing. No wife, no children – all had left, careening him back to the wide swaths of foamy sea again, only the depth of blue and mysteriousness of what was under the surface visible. There was a note, that’s all – a small scrap of goodbye – though its contents, its excuses, its explanations, remain unknown to me.

That house was filled with the past and the future was all that was ahead; he plowed forward, trying to fill the chest, trying to develop new memories, finding a new wife, a faithful one; finding my grandmother. Her parents bought the house, kissing their farewells to Baltimore City and welcoming the suburbs. It was the model house: simple, brick, wood floors, three bedrooms and a cave of a basement. And that house was passed down to my grandparents, then to my brother, and filled with innumerable uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers, filled with Sicilians smoking, baking, laughing, praying the rosary, downing wine, and living.

Visiting my brother is like living in a photo album. Visiting my brother is like being in grade school again. The décor has changed since the holidays and weekdays I spent visiting my grandparents, watching television specials and eating potfuls of macaroni and cheese. The carpet has been ripped up to expose the flooring the house was born with, the colors of the walls more muted, the stairwell no longer lined with framed photographs, the old furniture traded for newer pieces. Without the velveteen couch and the knickknacks strewn throughout the rooms, I can see it better now for what it is. I can appreciate the arcs in the doorways and the old-fashioned marble tile in the upstairs bathroom, both circular patterns, as in never-ending, as in everything ultimately comes back to meet. Circular like the heirlooms I own: never really mine, and yet somehow a part of me. I have always been captivated by these objects: their stories so unexplainable, their past sitting idle, waiting to be invented. Their history lies in my hands, in my heart.