Lost In Moments

Preface

     It was December and yes, how it felt like it. This year, mother nature has been good to us in terms of the New York cold. But, it seems as if every New Yorker was saying that, jinxing it, one major curse from the masses.  For as we gathered for the wake that evening it was as if Jack Frost himself was sneaking up into our air, chilling our bones. Or maybe it was because we lost a loved one, as that blanket of warmth is removed. The candle doesn't just burn out for that life, the chilling wind reaches out to us all, latching onto our souls, weighing heavy on our hearts.

     I took my grandfather's death hard, as we all did. I feel like it matters what kind of person who are when you die. For these beautiful souls are heavily mourned, as there becomes a paradox of Catholics praying in Church as the priest blesses the body of the deceased, all the while those Catholics that let "Amen" leave their lips are asking themselves, "Why God, why"? We become selfish and want our loved ones here, but in reality, how many times did we really take the time out, really carve out quality time, not just on turkey full holidays? How often do we wish we told that person how much we love them?

     For my cousin and I, we got our peace in our dreams (a few days later). Go figure, I think I will always be a dreamer at heart. One look at my grandfather in that realm cycle and I knew he knew we loved him. He told me through his eyes that he was okay and in a better place. If was all an illusion my mind created to cope, then my mind knows me too well.

     The next day at the funeral, the sound of bagpipes couldn't drown out the sounds of tears and the wintry chill couldn't replace the fear that loomed over the cemetery like a thick, immovable cloud. As we  returned to 36 Center Lane, I thought I would loose my composure going back to the house my Nanny and Poppy lived in my entire life. There would be no more playing waitress or singing in Nanny's cane as a microphone, but who was kidding who? Those days had been long gone. Who would sit in my grandparent's chairs now that they're gone?

      To my surprise, I kept it together, as I felt at ease there with my family. That is when the stories began. My father was known as the saint in the family. He could do no wrong in his mother's eyes, but he really never did anything wrong. He was one of eight kids, living in Jersey City, growing up in the 70s. As my aunts and uncles began to reminisce  on the good ole days, my ears were fixated on their stories. The feeling of nostalgia filled the air and we all breathed it in like it took on a gaseous form, entering our lungs, but warming our hearts. My mind drifted off to the 70s....

Lost In Moments - Chapter 1

     I was born in the wrong era. Don't get me wrong, I do love the 90s, but there is time for that later. My mother called me a hippie for awhile and although I used to hate it, she was right in a sense. Now I've met some pretty hippie people, peace signs and all, where I am more girly chic. However, my mentality is a bit peace, love, and flowers. I went through my experimentation days and I do like some mary jane, but who doesn't smoke pot these days.

    
     Hearing stories of the father's childhood stood out to me as much as the tacky 70s print. It was as if someone slipped me some acid as the stories became so alive in my mind. I was sucked into a time warp, seeing long shaggy hair and bell bottom and platforms.

     My aunts would lie on black tar in the summer to get the perfect tan. I think women in any generation seeks for glamorous perfection, but now a days, society overdosed on us, and thus Snookie tans became "in". The tar would melt into hot volcanic like goo, as their skin baked like crispy bacon in the summer heat. They would play in the water on those hot summer days. Pool you think? Eight kids is a lot to feed, we must downscale. They would play in their own version of a pool with "sewer" water. At the time, hosing off and slapping around Jersey water was refreshing, but looking back, they couldn't stop laughing about playing the dirty water. They didn't have a lot of money, but were rich in love. Their memories were so glamorous to me, although I could also imagine the struggle.

     The kids (my aunts and uncles) always had someone to play with, no one was ever alone. They had a Brandy bunch thing going, but I began to respect it. Growing up, I thought they were old farts, but reliving their memories had me in this spell. I felt myself internally begging for someone to let me inhale more stories.

     They spoke about times way before iPhones and eReaders. They played with bottle caps and played games where you were a state and your opponents could take your land. They spoke about the pervert neighbor who always watched them from his window, as I envisioned some creepy hermit idolizing my aunts tall frames and poofy hair-dos. They spoke about the other bazaar neighbors who would listen to family's conversations in their buildings through the alleyway, kind of like peeping Tom's of the ears. There was a neighborhood friend who would sing the same song every morning to wake up the kids when they were wasting the summer's day away. You get plenty time to sleep when your dead.

     I began to envy their parents, as I felt their family unit and loved the stories about what a great man my grandfather was, him and his twitching nose. He looked like Santa Claus to me as a child with his round belly, suspenders, and his white hair. That nose twitch he would do only added to this mystical memory.

     My aunts and uncles were not saints either, as they laughed about "Twitchy" the girl with Tourette syndrome. All kids can be cruel. As teenagers they would ride bikes through the cemetery and my one uncle even ran away and lived there. I heard hushed stories of them smoking joints and even having sex there. It did smell like teen spirit then, but I wondered how they felt about cemeteries now.

     Through these stories, I began to see these people for who they are. They were family and I was proud to be there in that moment, although I couldn't live it in actuality. Maybe now their memories will go on, becoming immortal with a pen stroke. 

     That afternoon, I was lost in the memories. It made me think of my Poppy and his life towards the end. He was lost in his memories, as he began to loose sight of reality. What is it like to be in the moment but a lost moment? I wonder if he saw his wife in his memories and chose to stay lost with her. I imagine it was better than battling age and sickness. Our bodies fail us, so can our minds, but do we ever loose our memories, or is it we give up reality to be lost in a moment?