The swish of a racket, striking a fuzzy yellow orb—pu-ahh—and the pok…pok as the ball hits the wall and the ground and returns.
The creak of the latch on the hoop releasing as we lower it in order to dunk.
The clatter of squirrel claws gripping the top of old fences.
The churn of the garage door chain, the big Chevy engine hauling up Taylor, a sign to Tyler and I to turn off the TV and pretend we were productive.
The thump of drums emanating off Mount Tabor at night.
The whir of a blender on Saturday morning swirling homemade Orange Julius.
These sounds are bygone, lost except snippets in minds to dig out like relics: of the yard and garden tended for so long, of rooms seared in our senses over decades, and then one day they’re for someone else, new memories for another family who may or may not take the place for granted. And we move onto fresh spaces, nomads awaiting new homes, alighting on landscapes to stay for awhile.
Once I drove Ty past there—past the old house—and it snuck up on him and he caught his breath because he never got to say goodbye, crying through the house one last time, under the plum tree and over the ferns and stones around the dried-out pond, in the rooms and attics upstairs which hid treasures of recollection.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. Memory lanes have a place and time. Maybe I should’ve let him be.
I remember Grampa Lewie & his brother Vic wandering through the house they grew up in, doing the same thing. I'm not sure if this was before or after their mom died. One thing they mentioned was the familiar, reassuring sound of the metal handles on their dad's dresser, with it's carefully organized clothes in the bottom drawers and mysterious dad nic-nacs in the shallow upper drawer. Now that dresser is mine and it continues to evoke memories and appreciation of the previous two generations.