Too much thinking, for once?
It's been a long time since I've visited my mother's family in Ireland. It's been a long time since I've thought about them, even though they're completely unforgettable. I haven't seen them since just after my mother died.
I remember seeing them when I was little. The memories may be from when I was so very young, but they feel like they're some of the clearest memories I have in my life. There are things I simply know about these people without having to have seen proof.
Once, when I saw them, my father was the only person there from his side of the family. My mother's family is enormous. The thing I remember most about them, though, is how happy they were. I've never seen so many smiles at once, so much activity, so much laughter. I liked it there, and I thinked they liked me. Is it possible to feel like you belong somewhere and yet feel completely out of place at the same time?
I remember the day they all gathered together for a... I don't know what it was precisely, but we were celebrating something. Perhaps it was just a family gathering. They seemed to celebrate anything, and they were curious for it, but they did it anyway. I remember one of them very well, though I couldn't tell you how I was related to him - one of the many breeds of cousin. The thing I remember most about him was how he felt to me. He felt warm-hearted.
He was in his early twenties then, I'd now say, and tall and handsome and youthful. He was blonde, like a number of the men actually, and while he looked so much like the rest of them, he stood out. I still haven't seen someone so rosy-cheeked, so happy, with a smile that could light up someone's soul. He, moreso than any of the others save perhaps my grandmother, liked me. And the instant he lifted me up, I liked him. I wonder what's become of him?
What I remember most about my grandmother is her kitchen. It was old in the way that precious old things are and should never be changed. She hung and dried her spices and herbs from everything that would hold them, and it filled the kitchen with a pleasant smell. I remember seeing her bake little pies and put them on the window and draw a little cross on the top - to keep the faeries from dancing on them, she said. I once watched them for hours to see if faeries would try.
She was just a curious, stout old woman with grey hair and a quick tongue and quicker eyes, and yet for all her quaint ways and working life, she seemed to me like a queen. She was a matriarch. She ruled that family and held it to her in a kind of loyalty and respect I again still have not seen. Woe to any and all who crossed her, and yet to be on her good side meant even a railing, raving argument could end in laughter.
But she would always win.
That family gathering left a particular impression on me, because my mother had always seemed so reserved to me previously. In retrospect I might even call her sadly muted, even though I wouldn't call her sad for it. Her personality was so sure and strong inside, I think, that no matter how she had to behave on the outside, it wouldn't make her feel trapped, wouldn't make her feel as if she weren't herself. That day at the gathering, I saw my mother as I'd never seen her. I saw her dancing to drums and pipes with other women her age; my cousin held me as I watched. She flew free, and all at once she seemed like something I had never even dreamt of before. She had never been more beautiful.
But that's over now. It was all over a long time ago, I think - either that, or it will never end. I don't have the wisdom to say which.
In the attic of my uncle's house - the husband of my father's sister - I have my mother's things. I have her clothes, I have her books, I have her chest. I used to steal up there in the middle of the night and read those precious books, so precious I wouldn't keep them in my room or in the library, but only in the sanctuary of that dusty attic.
I haven't looked inside the other chest for many, many years. I can't remember what's inside except for one object, a large old pair of iron scissors. When I last opened the chest and saw them, and held them, I burst into inexplicable tears. Those were the scissors my mother had put over my bed as a child - I remember them, black in the shape of a cross against the white wall. I didn't bother going deeper into the chest, but put the scissors back and locked everything up again.
For some reason, more than anything, I want to open that chest again and look inside.
I need to do something besides study for my NEWTs. It must be starting to wear on me.
I remember seeing them when I was little. The memories may be from when I was so very young, but they feel like they're some of the clearest memories I have in my life. There are things I simply know about these people without having to have seen proof.
Once, when I saw them, my father was the only person there from his side of the family. My mother's family is enormous. The thing I remember most about them, though, is how happy they were. I've never seen so many smiles at once, so much activity, so much laughter. I liked it there, and I thinked they liked me. Is it possible to feel like you belong somewhere and yet feel completely out of place at the same time?
I remember the day they all gathered together for a... I don't know what it was precisely, but we were celebrating something. Perhaps it was just a family gathering. They seemed to celebrate anything, and they were curious for it, but they did it anyway. I remember one of them very well, though I couldn't tell you how I was related to him - one of the many breeds of cousin. The thing I remember most about him was how he felt to me. He felt warm-hearted.
He was in his early twenties then, I'd now say, and tall and handsome and youthful. He was blonde, like a number of the men actually, and while he looked so much like the rest of them, he stood out. I still haven't seen someone so rosy-cheeked, so happy, with a smile that could light up someone's soul. He, moreso than any of the others save perhaps my grandmother, liked me. And the instant he lifted me up, I liked him. I wonder what's become of him?
What I remember most about my grandmother is her kitchen. It was old in the way that precious old things are and should never be changed. She hung and dried her spices and herbs from everything that would hold them, and it filled the kitchen with a pleasant smell. I remember seeing her bake little pies and put them on the window and draw a little cross on the top - to keep the faeries from dancing on them, she said. I once watched them for hours to see if faeries would try.
She was just a curious, stout old woman with grey hair and a quick tongue and quicker eyes, and yet for all her quaint ways and working life, she seemed to me like a queen. She was a matriarch. She ruled that family and held it to her in a kind of loyalty and respect I again still have not seen. Woe to any and all who crossed her, and yet to be on her good side meant even a railing, raving argument could end in laughter.
But she would always win.
That family gathering left a particular impression on me, because my mother had always seemed so reserved to me previously. In retrospect I might even call her sadly muted, even though I wouldn't call her sad for it. Her personality was so sure and strong inside, I think, that no matter how she had to behave on the outside, it wouldn't make her feel trapped, wouldn't make her feel as if she weren't herself. That day at the gathering, I saw my mother as I'd never seen her. I saw her dancing to drums and pipes with other women her age; my cousin held me as I watched. She flew free, and all at once she seemed like something I had never even dreamt of before. She had never been more beautiful.
But that's over now. It was all over a long time ago, I think - either that, or it will never end. I don't have the wisdom to say which.
In the attic of my uncle's house - the husband of my father's sister - I have my mother's things. I have her clothes, I have her books, I have her chest. I used to steal up there in the middle of the night and read those precious books, so precious I wouldn't keep them in my room or in the library, but only in the sanctuary of that dusty attic.
I haven't looked inside the other chest for many, many years. I can't remember what's inside except for one object, a large old pair of iron scissors. When I last opened the chest and saw them, and held them, I burst into inexplicable tears. Those were the scissors my mother had put over my bed as a child - I remember them, black in the shape of a cross against the white wall. I didn't bother going deeper into the chest, but put the scissors back and locked everything up again.
For some reason, more than anything, I want to open that chest again and look inside.
I need to do something besides study for my NEWTs. It must be starting to wear on me.