Do you keep items around you that remind you of special people and places? The ceramic cat at the entrance to my bedroom belonged to my grandmother. Nothing extraordinary sticks out about the dirty patchwork cat. To me, though, it is invaluable. Sacred memories dance around it. A simple glance can transport me back in time to the sights, sounds, and smells of my most special place on earth.     

      My grandparents’ house smelled like lemon Pledge and home-cooked meals. That smell welcomed me, enveloped me, and comforted me throughout my life. No matter what happened in life, I felt safe and happy at Big Mama and Big Daddy’s house. For me, that house became a kind of holy ground – sacred occurring in what appeared common.  

          Big Daddy died in 2004 and Big Mama followed in 2016. She lived to be 98 years old. I always thought she would live forever. She tried. She died on my mother’s 70th birthday, and a month almost to the day after my uncle died tragically at the hands of a distracted driver. After her funeral, as a family, we took time to salvage items, remember one last time, hear the sounds unique to the house, and soak in the remains.  For every smile that crossed my face, there were several more tears.
 
      As I stood in the nearly empty shell of my former safe place, I felt what I call the hollow sacred. The people were gone. The furniture, the pictures, and all of the things associated with the space were gone. The space itself, however, felt alive – like the entire cavity of the house was filled, floor to ceiling, with every emotion from every event lived within its walls.

I could almost hear the echoes of laughter and feel the swirling mischief in the space.  In those moments I desperately wished I could capture its magic to take with me. Walking out felt like abandoning a piece of myself – thwarting my own safety. Nothing in life could ever feel like that spot on the map for me.

      When our time at the house came to an end, I walked around the outside one last time. I took time to sear into my memory banks the sights of 44th & Royal – my family’s corner of the world.  My Mother waved at the camera as I snapped a photo of the last time we closed the front door. When I look at that picture, I feel irritated that she could smile at that moment. I guess I’m glad, though, because four months later she took her last breath on earth.

      Six years have passed since our family lost three people in 6 months’ time. In so many ways, it feels like just yesterday. Their memories have not faded with time. I remain amazed at just how close they feel sometimes.

     But the patchwork cat remains, an eyewitness to all of it. Even now, in my home, she takes in the next generation of shenanigans. She stands post as our lives unfold around her, just as she did in times past.

     Comment below what special item you have that keeps the dust from settling on your memories.