Eight (day 8)

I will keep writing these eight minute memoirs.

I remember the day I got baptized, a few days after turning eight. We had a family party afterward at our house, all of my extended family crowded in the backyard. A late summer evening bathed in soft blue light as the sun set through a tangle of oak trees along the fence.

I loved that house. I loved the gully in the backyard, filled with  mysterious pathways and assorted kid memorabilia- half-buried "treasure" and forts and turf wars fought by children with dirty knees.

I've been thinking about this little memoir, "eight," for a few weeks now. Each time I'm a time traveler, looking back at the world through adult eyes. I see my great-grandparents again, still so alive and vibrant, the way they were when I was eight. For just a moment, they are not the tired bodies left behind when they died. I can almost feel them, and I almost long for an afterlife just to hear those voices again in the blue evening air.

I see my mom- by the time she was my age now she had four children. She was so young, with long dark hair and usually dressed in jeans and white t-shirts. She braided my hair into a crown for the baptism. I wore a white dress embroidered with colorful flowers. How did my mom know that all my white dresses would always need just a little color? (My wedding dress was a soft gold beneath ivory lace.)

Folding chairs arranged along the patio, cousins swinging on the play-set in their church clothes. My grandpa has dark hair. The concrete still warm from the sun, french doors leading into the kitchen with white linoleum counters. A sandstone fireplace. Home. Eight.

This is where I travel at night, when I remember eight.

(Sometimes I drive by the old house on my way home. One late evening I snuck into the backyard when the lights in the house were dark. I still love that house, but time made the gully small.)