The Gate of Memory
© 2008, Amy Mulvin
“Back on its golden hinges the gate of memory swings and my heart goes into the garden and walks with olden things.” —Ella Wheeler Wilcox
It is always in the spring that things of years past make their way into my thoughts. Memories flood my soul, and I am filled with feelings that range in degrees. Now, as I close my eyes and allow the wistfulness of sweet things long gone invade my head, I am reminded of my Great Aunt Lena…
It is 1986. Flippin, Arkansas is a small, cozy town, inhabited by southerners who have never met a stranger. The ground is dry and sun scorched, and Flippin’s inhabitants are praying for rain at their dinner tables and in Sunday morning church. Afternoons in the hot and humid Arkansas air are spent swinging under the shade of an oak tree that has been standing since before Flippin’s first settlers staked out their homes.
The breeze is warm, but as it sweeps across Aunt Lena’s brow, it is cooled by the sweat resting there. She sips her sun tea in silence, hand rested on my knee, and I watch her. I am fascinated by her. The skin sagging from her petite frame proves only to show the hardships she has triumphed over in her many years on this earth. The wrinkles that decorate her face are a testament to how she endured these hardships; around her eyes are the wrinkles from the tears that brought her through some, and around her mouth are the wrinkles that show her smile that brought her through the rest. Her hair is plagued by strands of silvers, grays, and white, which bear witness to the vast amounts of wisdom she has collected through the decades. Her eyes are trustworthy, and her voice is sincere and gentle. She is beautiful.
I hear the ice tinkle against the glass with each sip she takes, and I, in turn, sip from mine. Quietly she begins to hum a melody. Very quietly, and it is carried off in the breeze. An occasional car passes by her house which sits on Main Street. The drivers tip their hats as they pass by, and Aunt Lena nods her acceptance of their mannerly gestures. Even as a child I can translate this to see the respect and recognition she receives from the community.
The sun hides itself in the darkening sky. Aunt Lena raises her hand from my knee to shield her eyes as she watches it disappear. In the distance, along the horizon, thunderclouds have built themselves up, and are slowly sneaking their way through the atmosphere. The breeze picks up its pace, as though preparing the way for these clouds, and little bits of debris dance across the ground. Down the road, small shrills of excitement follow the increasing wind as children gather their belongings to take cover from the approaching storm. Aunt Lena never moves in anticipation. Her foot continues to rock the swing, and she takes another sip of her tea as she wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. Silence.
In the expanse separating us from the clouds, flashes of lightening scatter like static, and low, shallow echoes of thunder growl like that of a hungry stomach. My anxiety builds. Aunt Lena must sense this, as it causes her to pat my knee. She begins humming again… swinging… all the while the lightening strikes get brighter and more electrified, and the thunderous growls transform into deep and heavy rumblings. Aunt Lena watches the sky, and I watch Aunt Lena; but she doesn’t stir. Instead, she lays her head back against the swing, closes her eyes, and by squeezing my kneecap, urges me to follow suit. We listen as the first raindrop falls to the mighty oak, but its dense leaves shield us from all but just a tiny droplet. This is all the sky will empty for now. The wind is blowing through my hair like a sandstorm carries sand, and even Aunt Lena’s bun atop her head is messed by the force of it, but still she hums a sweet melody, eyes closed, foot’s momentum swinging our swing.
“Wait for it,” she says to me. Her words are soft, almost whispered. These are the first words breaking the silence between us.
Lightening lights the entire southern sky, followed immediately by a clap of thunder that I swear awakened the dead. I would have jumped out of my skin, but there was an unspoken peace between Aunt Lena and the storm, and I could feel that peace radiating from her. It enclosed around me like a security blanket, and I was not scared. The progression of lightening and thunder continued like an orchestra around us. And then:
The rain poured down, slowly, allowing the earth to soak it up, and Aunt Lena smiled.
Aunt Lena is gone from this earth now, and has been for the better part of a decade, but the simplicity of this stays with me even now. Not one thunderstorm surrounds me that I am not reminded of Aunt Lena, and I feel the peace and relaxation that had circulated through her that day… and I smile.
