Selecta

a 500 word memoir of sorts with poetic flare

Friday night after a long car ride I stand in the grass lot watching my family walk towards the house. The smell of pine needles and damp soil is as thick as the surrounding blackness. Like light coming from a key hole as seen from inside a dark closet, the corner of the residence off in the distance has tall windows which display a muted scene: an animated barroom brimming with amber light; people stand in twos and threes drinking up laughter and sharing memories and amusing anecdotes. Walking up, I pass a sign, round, red and white - “Parkeren” - nailed to a tree. I trot over slate discs forming a walkway of stepping stones gradually descending to the door. I open it. Warm light and air rush and surround me like a quilt; it is familiar and curious. Jazz bounces along at a level you can easily talk over but impossible to ignore. I turn for the barroom but am stopped by my dad’s grip around my arm and an order to make my way to the kitchen. Halfway across the dining room, swimming in curry scents and coconut, fried chips and fish, my Oom (Uncle) Hank grabs the hair on my head with his free hand and says with a thick guttural accent, “look at this young man,” his mouth producing all words in the shape of an oval, and then a grand smile, teeth like blank dominoes. He squeezes my cheek until my eyes well up with tears. No one is startled by the loud popping the pine wood makes in the fireplace. A cigarette is put out. I turn, and see my Oma coming from the swinging doors of the kitchen still wearing an apron. I have always been in awe of this woman. She walks toward me with a thoughtful smile; her mind on her guests, her food, her family, her music, her hands; she is tall and dark, blond curls minus the curlers, big eyes, a tall rectangular face. She is an artist of many disciplines. She speaks of miracles when reflecting on her children and grandchildren. Her culinary wonders, and the atmosphere of this quaint spot, and the certainty of an enjoyable experience bring people from far away. They reluctantly stop coming, after my Oma is gone. But they still call, wondering if the place still exists, if they can come back to dance to the jazz band upstairs or amble through the hanging beads and into the pub room with the bamboo bar, fashioned with bamboo stools and plush cloth seats, and paintings of exotic lands, to enjoy a cocktail and a story, while I watch with a ginger ale, extra maraschino cherries, listening to the patrons tell tales of adventure and invasion amongst the smoke and snare drum, and my Opa holding court for all that must listen; then a thought in me appears: I wonder, will I get caught the next time I break away to swipe sugar cubes?