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Topic: Beginnings (05/31/04)
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TITLE: Reflections By Charlotte Browne 06/02/04 |
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We watched, Charles and I, as the gentle rain glued itself to the frame of the bay window. The droplets formed trails in the accumulated dust on the window sill. The window had guarded so many years of life from the willful spirit of nature. It was not long ago that the eyes, which peered through the lowest pane, belonged to a cherry-cheeked male child -- a child with eyes so dark, yet piercing, that birds feigned to roost upon the rail that encircled our porch. No birds gathered today, and the piercing eyes that drove birds away were only reflections in the rain.
Charles touched my hand and moved closer to my side. The big house on the river that always greeted us with open arms -- that had been home to six generations of his name; that welcomed newest generations to our family; that held the souls of his mother and father, his grandparents, and their grandparents -- the big house on the river that hosted countless birthday parties; that sustained all night parties of teenagers; that celebrated elaborate wedding parties -- the big house on the river that gray clad soldiers once recognized; that colorfully dressed tourists once sought -- the big old house on the river that had withstood over 150 years of boys and girls, men and women, cats and dogs, all seeking shelter from the rain -- was feeling its last human contact. Even as we remained within the circumference of its walls I could feel the house weeping, weeping as I wept, weeping as Charles wept. We sensed an eerie sound of the old structure, a squeak and a creak -- the cry of the aged. The sounds, we used to regard as the normal noise of our home, were now only the sounds of its death toll.
We moved through the house like thieves, suffering the fumes of rotting wood and paper; our flashlights scanning every corner. A curious reddish brown ring, carelessly applied chest-high, throughout the house interior belied a decorator’s brush. We walked around memories and on top of memories--wretched, mud soaked papers and furniture. Just a week earlier we had taken out of the house only what we could carry: the pickup-bed full of clothes (appropriately tucked into garbage bags), the picture albums, the family Bible, the old blue file box, and my fluffy pillow. This year was different -- the river had detected our lingering, and had forced us to wade from house to truck and back wetting our feet in muddy water. By the time Charles and I had departed the old house, the hungry river had begun flowing under our small truck and nibbling at the hubcaps.
Our later return to the house was more deliberate.
“Do you think even God cares about this place now?” asked Charles with a scornful tone as he stared at our trash covered refrigerator -- the river had opened doors and deposited limbs and debris -- piled now in and around the stained, steel-box.
“It can be replaced,” I said in a monotone.
“Snake,” said Charles without emotion. He weakly raised a hand and pointed his flashlight at the coiled black reptile in a corner next to the refrigerator.
“I’ll get the gun,” he said, adding a hurried slur to the word ‘I’ll.’
“Don’t bother,” I replied; “it all belongs to him now.”
Moments later we were in the cab of our pickup, leaving the old house on the river - by the same route Charles' family had exited the property for 154 years. Charles and I said nothing; the dried stains of tears on my face felt like the traces of raindrops we had seen in the bay windows, only moments earlier. Charles barely glanced at the fallen pine tree near our lane; he looked straight ahead. Only the tires of our truck chattered a farewell to the big old house on the river; I did not bother looking in the door side mirror..
Our pastor read, “My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and the portion for ever, ” Psalm 73:26. Charles and I sat in our familiar seats, our eyes on the huge iron cross hung over the chancel.
“You know,” he whispered, “Christ has provided us a new beginning. Just think, where would we be if Jesus didn’t care?”