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The street curves uphill. Higher and higher until close to the top, the white and red house appears—its lush flowerbed of vibrant roses, daisies and peonies catching the eyes of passersby. Garden statues and stones with messages of hope are placed lovingly around a willow tree. A few steps leading to the porch stairs, one can smell the aroma of homemade sauce and fresh bread wafting from the opened windows. These delicious scents are nothing new at this house that’s become a legend in our small community. I touch the railing as I walk up the stairs—smoothing my fingers over the same familiar imperfections. My mother’s house. The house I grew up in. The house her presence makes a home. She calls to me before I even step through the doorway, and somehow, the troubles of the world cease to exist. What is it about this place that grounds me? That makes the pressures of life melt away. I hear other familiar voices. Those of my sisters and brothers playing cards and boardgames the same way we did as children. Laughter rings out, excited voices, unvarnished dialogue in a familial ethnic type of way that is both refreshing and comical. We are all older now with families of our own. We’ve changed in some ways, but the core of who we are remains. We are family—interwoven with an unshakeable bond. Walking in, I’m greeted with the same salutations of those in the past. Different nicknames from each sibling, genuine smiles, hugs. I relish each moment. And then, she comes from the kitchen. My mom. Ever faithful. Ever sacrificing. Ever the most gracious, loving mother. The woman who prays for her family constantly. The one who taught me every great virtue by example. What an honor to be her daughter. I pass the room where my father spent most of his time before he died. Somehow, my mother managed to draw the family closer back then, carrying forward the traditions she and he had created for their five children. Memories flood in—Barbie dolls, playing house, acting as Wonder Woman in one of my brother’s homemade movies. My father is there too. Clapping, singing, and urging my eldest brother to play his accordion. Thoughts of losing my dad pain me, and my mom, no matter how old I become, still knows how to read my expressions when I’m downcast. She sees me in the room then ushers me into the kitchen, lifting my countenance by her complete, unconditional love, a love like no other--the constant in my life. How does she do it? I’ve often wondered. At her age, how does she manage to run circles around people half her age? Her house and affairs are always in order, her kitchen stocked for large family dinners, her curtains sewed and pressed by her own hands, yet she’s in physical pain. She talks to me but my thoughts drift to her beauty, her grace, and her faithfulness. I look around and am overcome with the grounding of her presence here. But something troubles me. Maybe it’s the sense that the passage of time feels like a tidal wave ready to wash all of this away one day. “Honey, you look tired,” she says to me. Lifting a fresh roll from the tray, she hands it to me. “Here. Go relax in the living room until the pasta is done.” Kissing the top of her head, I take the roll but go outside to the porch where a swing once was. A swing that as a child, I remembered her tenderly rocking me to sleep on while humming a melody or whispering stories of long ago. I place the roll on a napkin for now. I am not hungry, but melancholy—a mood that lingers with my writer’s emotions until I solve what’s bothering me. The windchimes move softly with the wind--their clinking reminding me of the sounds I’d hear while vacationing in Maine as I looked out upon the ocean. There, empty dory boats moved with the wind, unmanned for the evening, but anchored safely in the harbor. “Lord,” I whisper, heart racing, “will time take this all away some day? The people I love…this feeling of stability.” Moments of silence follow, but then the windchimes stir again with a breeze that lifts my hair like a breath of heaven. I close my eyes, and there it is—the Maine harbor from decades ago. The clinking of metal against metal. Waves lapping over the rocks. And it’s out there, in the far-off distance, where a few boats drift in calm or sometimes turbulent seas—but are not lost. They are anchored. And then a voice, quiet as a prayer, gently reminds me: So are you. I open my eyes, listening carefully. It’s then when I understand. The love that raised me. The faith that steadied me. The God who never let me go. They form my anchor—my constant. Certainly, change will come. Winds may rise. But I now know that I am anchored. “Honey,” she calls from the door. “It’s chilly. Come in. The pasta’s done.” I take her hand—a hand worn by time but still strong with devotion. “I love you, Mom. You know that?” She smiles. “Of course. I love you too. Now come on. Wait till you see the tray of meatballs, pasta, and hot sausage I made…...” And just like that, the ache quiets, the questions settle, and I’m hungry again. I grab the roll I left on the napkin and follow her inside. As I pass the collage of childhood photos on the wall, I pause and smile. The years have changed much, but not everything shifts with time. Some things stay.
Some things hold.
Some things are constant. Just like my mother’s house….. ~Karina Garrison
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