It's Late....

I tried to go to bed at a decent hour tonight. Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting on the bathroom floor, painting my toenails, as my restless mind wandered. In my freshly-painted bare feet, I padded down the hallways of my memory. Those hallways that have stretched and stretched with each passing year. More like highways than hallways, now. Miles long with rows of doors, right and left. So many doors I avoid like poison…and keep safely locked against the times I may misstep and wander too close.

Behind those doors are my brightest memories. Of my sister, my dad, my family as it used to be. All the things, the very important things, that have gone away and will never return. Not too long ago, those were the only rooms I lived in. Even after the sweet memories had soured to constant pain. How many years went by before I realized I had to move…had to leave them behind, because the pain had become my life. So I packed up. Moved out. Locked the doors.

But sometimes, like tonight, I boldly walk up to a door and stop. Who knows why? An old picture, a phone call, an email, one too many glasses of wine… I put on my "what the hell?" armor, turn the knob and fling open the door. It bangs against the wall and gives me just enough time to steal a memory, a moment, before it slams safely shut again. And I take that memory, that little snapshot--of Joyce playing cards in her green velvet bathrobe; or Dad sitting in the stern of the boat, steering into the next fish-laden cove; or the girls (my nieces) laughing and mugging at a backyard barbecue--and savor it. Until the tears rise, and I have to stuff that picture back under the door and walk resolutely away. But, each time, I get to look a little longer before the ache becomes unbearable…