Little Things

My earliest memories.

It's the little things that count. It's the memories that we hold, eternally beautiful in our hearts, fragments of a past life smuggled into our futures, that shape us. I remember the old house. I remember the kitchen in the back. Cream linoleum flooring, the wooden countertops, Dad eating scrambled eggs at the head of the table. I remember the furniture my father made; that armoire adorned with paintings of crimson apples. The way the door stuck when I tried to open it.

"Push the handle up and out" my mother said, "Up and out"

And one day that’s what we would do, push right up and out of that town. Up and out of that apartment. Up and out of the kitchen in the back. Up and out to better, more sophisticated things. I remember the heavy wheezing of an ancient refrigerator, orange juice with lots of pulp. A brass chandelier, but a golden light glowing, filling, saturating the kitchen, my memories.

I tie a flowery apron around my waist. Mom rolls up the sleeves of that Swedish wool sweater my auntie bought me, but I wiggle, trying to push them back down. I step up on the splintered mahogany stool; it is rough on my soles. I slither past my mother as she hovers, wiping my face, rolling up the sleeves of my Swedish sweater. I immerse my hands in the sink filled with warm, soapy water. The suds disperse and the water gleams in the sunlight streaming through the wavy glass window. The brittle trees scrape the glass; they shiver in the bitter March wind. Soon it will be spring. 

My tea set glistens in the soap. The plastic dishes slip out of my hands. And so do those mornings in that kitchen, fleeting moments of childhood, they slip out of my hands. The dishes make hollow tinkling songs in the sink. The hot water visibly steams as the shy sunlight gently wavers in the kitchen. 

Dad watches The Sound of Music in the living room. I hear Maria sing "These are a few of my favorite things…" The sleeves of my Swedish sweater drip, heavy, with dishwater. A few bubbles rise and pop. I hear "silver white winters that melt into springs." I know this song by heart. I splash. The blue floral wallpaper is yellowed and warped around the sink. My father told me its because I splash too much when I wash my hands. The cold wet creeps up my arms as the wool becomes saturated. My fingers are rubbery and raw from the hot water. 

I can hear my mother from her bedroom, singing, "I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel soooo baaad…"

         The television snaps off. My mother keeps on singing. The soapy water gurgles down the drain. Hold onto it all, I tell that little girl now, hold onto as much as you can. Always hold onto the shy sunlight and the soapy water, the golden glow in the old kitchen. No matter what you become, no matter where you are, remember The Sound of Music. Remember your childhood, your favorite things, your plastic tea set. Carry the songs of sweet memories suspended in the vastness of time, the little things that matter, even as the world turns fast and opens wide, even as you push up and out.