The Material Remembers

The Material Remembers

The wall reached out excitedly to touch me with a careful caress … then, the carpet and closet joined in for a chorus of hello. The windows whispered a greeting; the kitchen vibrated from floor to ceiling as I passed by; all the particles of the whole place appeared to come alive as if they wanted to embrace me in the molecules of their own memory.

It had been 40 years since I lived there in that house. Not much had changed, except me. Yet outwardly not a moment had elapsed since I had lived there while I was still young, happy, clueless of my future, and content with my cuddly cat, Frosty.

Yes, I saw Frosty there too. Everywhere. In the kitchen where I gently stroked her fluffy fur with a wire brush each morning as she ate a treat; by the front window where she sat patiently waiting for me, swishing her tail to and fro; on the cool counter tops where she would jump up for a slice of cheese; at the front door, daring not to go a step further than the cushioned threshold. Every room held a flash of recall and those flashes flooded through me with a passionate potency.

The material remembers.

I went back so I could remember – everything that happened there – how I felt, what I heard, saw, smelled, all the senses remembering everything unfolding as if it were happening all over again. I was back there in time and saw all the events and things and people and details surrounding events that occurred decades earlier.

Even more incredulous as I drove from Atlanta to Fort Lauderdale, on my way to catch a cruise ship in Miami, was the premonition that my old house would be for sale right now. How could I know that? I had a certain thought and visualized a “for sale” sign out in the front yard. Certain enough that I planned ahead to pretend to be a buyer and arrange to tour my old place – before I had any inkling that my intention would pan out. Merely a pipe dream to pass the time as I drove, idle thoughts to wile away endless highway. 

It wouldn’t hurt to drive by and have a look. I usually did that anyway when I went back by Fort Lauderdale, just to see the house and remember my life back then. There were favorite restaurants to stop and have a bite, too.

When I lived there as a hopeful young lady, I had luscious long hair and a trim slender figure. Always tanned and toned from lounging in my backyard pool, my humble being yet unabated by lessons of a longer existence. I laughed a lot, dated different men, and sipped life through a straw of sugar coated experiences. I liked to dress up, go to disco bars, and float on a large raft at the beach near Oakland Park Blvd. I shopped at the brand new Pompano Fashion Square (so hip and cool back then), and bought boxes of Florida oranges at one of those ubiquitous roadside fruit stands located across from the shopping mall. On weekends I loved going to the largest flea market anywhere, which took up 10 drive-in movie screen lots (remember those?!), and I started collecting little things I loved, but didn’t need; an unfortunate habit.

Happy. I knew happy and didn’t know then that happy would take a hiatus, even a permanent hike away from me forever. Maybe that’s part of the reason I keep returning. To remember happy.

The blessings of bliss, covered in youthful carelessness, dancing to the music soundtracks of mindful living. As a young lady on my own, living in the moment didn’t require a conscious correction or Buddha-seeking sojourns. Now came naturally, as it often does before we hit the adult wall of worry.

Here I come again, I thought, after 40 years…. I turned down the street, left off of Commercial Boulevard, and from afar saw the sign: FOR SALE. Just as I had envisioned it. For Sale. My heart skipped a small beat and my soul bowed in acknowledgement to whatever source shows me the way – always.

Pulling into the circular driveway to stop and write the agent’s phone number, a woman came out from the house and walked to my car with a wave.

“Hi!” I greeted her. “Are you the agent?”

“No,” she said. “I’m the owner. How can I help you?”

“May I see the house?”

“Absolutely! I’d be delighted to show you around if you have some time right now. It’s a beautiful home.”

I already know that, I mused to myself…. I already know every nook and cranny of that house, but sure! Show me!

She babbled about this room or that view or new tiles, and I tuned her out to sink into my own sensorial soliloquy and simply feel my way back to the way back.

The moment we walked in, inanimate objects reached for me, each with their own tales to tell, each with a record long ago filed, but never forgotten. I stood amazed at the details flooding into my mind and the scenes replayed from every corner of every room.

Everywhere I looked I saw my furnishings, my pictures on the walls, my things exactly where they once were.

I had orange and white fleecy furniture; very fashionable and very Florida; hippie décor during hippie days. There was the night I cried on the furry couch, because a boyfriend broke up with me. And the friend who lounged in the sloped furry chair – over there….

In the bedroom I remembered the night my brother called the police because I fell asleep and dropped the phone to the floor in the middle of an apparently unimportant to me, late-night conversation. He didn’t know what had happened and the police broke into my bedroom window to rescue me from my sweet dreams, scaring me half to death with their noise and the bright flashlights. Funny now, in recall, but frightening and embarrassing then. That’s the first memory that popped into my mind when I peered into the same bedroom. That and then the clothes that populated the side closet.

We walked into the backyard and there, under the bluest sky and bright summer sun, beckoned my beautiful pool. Still the same configuration, I noticed, still the same four steps at the shallow end and still the very deep side with a diving platform – and still the pretty yard and partitioned fence to separate nosy neighbors.

There’s where I shot my first modeling job for Jordan Marsh, I ruminated as I peered around the house to see the velveteen lawn still exactly the same.

There’s the patio where I played games with friends; there’s the pretty palms I planted! Still there and look how tall they are!

We walked back through the house for a final glimpse of what is now a $430,000 house. $430,000!? Once upon a time, it cost $69,000. If only I’d known … if only we all knew now what we didn’t know when.

It sparked me to consider how remarkable and lovely it remains; to learn that everything is and always will be still there for me. A reflection of perfection from my past. I left a long time ago, but my house and my beloved pet, Frosty, never left me. Not for a second.

The material remembers.

And so do I.

Just Another Lori Story