My sister, Ocean Springs, Mississippi, 2012
Sometimes, when I am reading in the park or sitting by the pool, I listen to the sound of wind blowing through the trees, close my eyes, and find myself sitting on my Mamaw’s bench swing. I can smell the hydrangeas she is growing in her garden. I can feel the humidity of a storm brewing. I look around, with my mind’s eye, and see my sister playing with her Barbie motorcycle in the distance. A loud noise, a phone vibration, a child calling my name – any of these brings me back to the present. When I am walking home, I pass a grocery store selling rotisserie chickens, the smell instantly transporting me back to my Mamaw’s house, where I helped her in the kitchen. She always pulls the chicken from the oven's roasting pan and sets it down on the countertop in front of my Papaw. I am standing on a step ladder, tall enough now to receive a taste of the chicken skin that my Papaw always shares with me. He smiles at me. The honking of a car stuck in traffic draws me out of another memory. These memories, both random and summoned, have become my backbone, the thing that keeps me going.
My earliest memories are dreams I had as a small child. Sometimes I am forced to re-live painful memories in my head as well, watching for the end as if I were waiting for a storm to pass. Every day, I am pulled in and out of memory, remembering myself as I once was, remembering more peaceful times, remembering people that I’d rather forget. I’m tucked away so often that those worlds become my own again, re-living each in my head until needed in the present day once more.
I remember my Mamaw’s home often, in Marthaville, Louisiana, a town so small that it isn’t even considered an established city. I’m here so frequently that at times it can feel real. I remember when I was a teenager, searching for an escape from the life I was living, I would picture myself there, running through the dirt and mud on a rainy day, going for a walk with my dad and sister down the dirt road, picking blueberries with my Mamaw. I wasn’t always so fond of these memories. I remember when I first moved away from there, to my mom’s house in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, the other kids used to make fun of my country upbringing and accent. I felt shame, and even though we were still in the South and they also had accents, I was different; I was an easy target. I remember once in music class, when I was only around 9, our music teacher began singing “You Are My Sunshine,” and I was immediately tucked away in a memory. There I was, sitting in my Mamaw’s lap, her curling my hair with ripped-up rags after my bath and singing “You Are My Sunshine” in my ear. Back to reality, in my music class, I was crying, and the other kids around me were staring at me like I was crazy. These memories began to feel like something I resented – something I wanted to run away from.
I spent years of my life running away. Running from my own history, my heritage, even my family. I ran from the memories I once cherished of my Mamaw’s house for so long that I thought that I had forgotten them. I was comfortable in putting on a mask and pretending I didn’t grow up in the country, pretending I wasn’t Southern, pretending that I wasn’t me. But that house kept calling. No matter how much I wanted to forget, those memories were latent images in my head, just waiting for the catalyst to develop again.
When I was 23, things came rushing back to me. On a journey of self-discovery, reflecting on my past was necessary. The more I looked back, the more that house drew me back in. Once again, I could close my eyes and see where the edge of the mowed yard met the wild overgrowth of the field that was in between my Mamaw’s house and the woods. I could see the lightning bugs that used to fly around at dusk. Once again, I could hear my Mamaw’s voice calling me to come in for dinner. Sometimes I would wonder why these memories came back to me all of a sudden, after years of running. Then, one day, my dad called me to tell me that my Mamaw had passed away. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, since she could not remember who I was or our memories together.
I remember the last time I spoke to her, when I was 16. I called her to wish her a Happy New Year, and she told me of a dream she had. She was younger, around the age she was when she met my Papaw. He was there too, she said, younger as well. She asked, “Is it my time yet? I miss you.” My Papaw replied, “Not yet, you’ve still got time.” Somehow, I felt that after all these years, my memories were returning because she was there with me again. She wasn’t gone; she was just tucked away, in my head, in those times we spent together.
Life carried me far from there, from the South – into adulthood, into the Navy, into places I never thought I’d go. Yet, the pull of that dirt road, of that house, remained. After completing my training in the Navy in 2022, I drove through Louisiana on my way to my first duty station. I got off the interstate at the Natchitoches exit, then went the other way, towards Marthaville. I let memory guide me, down the dirt road I used to walk with my dad. Everything was the same, except I no longer lived here, nor did my dad, or my sister. I slowed down in front of the house, the same but different, and imagined that my Mamaw and Papaw were still there. That I could run inside and smell her chocolate pie cooking in the oven. That I could embrace them and tell them how much I had missed them and how sorry I was for forgetting about them for so long. But they weren’t there, they were tucked away, in my head, just impressions of what used to be.
That direct, head-on collision with my past left me with a bleeding hole in my chest. I could no longer run away from my past; I had to confront it, welcome it with open arms. I let the memories take me more often after that. Tucked in and out, re-living precious moments in my head, the hole that was left began to heal. I no longer lie about where I am from, who I am, or the things that shaped me into the person I am today. That house, and the ghosts I hold on to, still call to me, pulling me back there with every recollection. Every year, the pull gets stronger. I know that one day I will run down that dirt road to the house that haunts my memories – and return once more.