Within These Walls

by

Patti Dickinson

Sitting in my kitchen yesterday, finishing up the last couple of swallows of my coffee before I headed out for my work at the Clinic.  Quiet moments, husband at the office, kids at school. Mary Morgan, home on Spring Break, sleeping the slumber of a too-tired college student, seemingly oblivious to the cacophony of getting kids up and out, doors slamming, the cereal bowls hitting against the sink, the metallic sound of jangled car keys.  Multiple trips up the stairs for jackets, a forgotten book, a tennis racket.  Repeated pleas to hurry up.  

I thought about what memories were contained within the walls of this house. 

We conceived four of eight babies here.  I cried in the kitchen when I got the phone call from my dad saying that my mom had died.  That was the first time I ever heard my dad cry. Thanksgiving dinners, Halloween costumes, Easter egg hunts,  fires in the fireplace.  Games at the kitchen table -- backgammon, Chutes and Ladders, Blink.  First days of school.  The kids' friends coming through our back door to play, work on school projects, have band practice in our garage, come to a birthday party.  

How many first time drivers headed down the driveway for that first solo trip in the car. Homecoming and Prom pictures taken on our front porch.  Kids coming through the back door with good news and bad.  A detention, making Varsity, a fender bender, a college acceptance letter, a failed test. How many phone calls had come from teachers, boyfriends/girlfriends, from the pediatrician, an out-of-touch college roommate.  Basketball and Four Square games on spring/summer evenings. 

How many years we hung the stockings with care.  How many times we have crushed Shredded Wheat by the front step for Rudolph (and how much Shredded Wheat that Rudolph was too full to eat would get tracked into the house).  How many times we pulled out of the driveway for our vacation. Raking leaves, putting Christmas lights on the house.  How many college applications have been filled out. How many newpapers have been thrown in the driveway, how many times my kids mowed the lawn, how many gooey butter birthday cakes I've made.  This house was the scene of one broken leg and two broken collarbones.

And as each grandchild made his/her appearance, we were back to sticky handprints on the windows.  

Yes, we'd come full circle.