The memory of a large Conch shell that used to lay upon the floor at my grandparent’s home was the spark to the flame of wistful homesickness. I had the piercing longing come over me as I noticed an image of a similar shell within the newsfeed during my morning routine in front of this laptop screen. The waking mind is open to wavering mentation, demanding past experiences.
Grandma was a huge part of my young life. For a good while she was my caretaker. Mom would be at work during the day, carrying those trays of food to the usual poor tippers. Grandma and I spent days at her house. While I crawled around and walked, noticing those colorful wonders of a new world–smelling and sensing all that that little section of the neighborhood had to offer, I was developing into those little fragments of what I would carry throughout my life. Becoming more than just a child of curiosity, progressively. Sun and cloud; light and darkness–now highlighting that silent world.
Channels on an old console television with the gentle odor of her powdery fragrance. Taking my baths in the sink. Grandpa would sneak in and place an egg behind me while I would take naps, telling me I had ‘laid an egg’ when I awoke. The homemade jellies and jams. The rains on the windows surrounding the back porch, while I sat safely inside, overwhelmed by the plant life on the shelves. Their old ways held onto throughout the trying times of the Great Depression. Black and white photos.
There is a sound of silence accompanying these memories, ringing louder with each passing year. It is a wonder of the human mind to reminisce, and to wonder why we do so.