It has happened countless times: in the middle of a yoga pose, chapped heels pressed against the bubbly surface of my mat, arm stretching towards the ceiling, I am suddenly assailed by a memory, a bright, stinging arrow from the distant past.
These memories are distinct from the normal chatter of my restless mind, that weary chorus I know so well: What will I… Why did he… When will it…
These vivid, emotional scenes unreel in rapid motion, short films projected on the screen of my skull. Where is memory stored, I wonder? In the dusty crease of a hip joint, to fly out when that joint is eased open? Or is it the angle of light against the studio wall that flashes against my brain and triggers a memory of the same light on a different day, millions of minutes and thousands of hours ago?
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Summer. 1996.
I'm still living in Oregon, driving a short distance to visit an elderly couple I dearly love. Silver-haired, bright-eyed, they both speak with faint Scottish brogues, rolling their r's, a gentle purr that prowls beneath their sentences.
He was the pastor of the church my family attended while I was a teenager; he and his wife singled me out from my brothers and sisters. “If you didn't already have such wonderful grandparents,” they said, “we'd want you to be our granddaughter.”
They were both dapper dressers; he, in trousers creased razor-sharp, shoes shined, shirt crisp; she, in tweed skirts and ruffle-necked blouses with pearl buttons. When he squeezed my hand in his, I could feel the bones of his knuckles. She would often wrap her arm around my waist, pressing her soft, wrinkled cheek against my shoulder. Unused to such affection, I stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do, not wanting to move an inch.
It was he who met me at the front of the church one Sunday morning when I walked down the aisle during the closing hymn, declaring my decision to be baptized. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, he said, his hand on my back as he guided me out of the water several weeks later.
Whenever I went to visit them, they sat close together, knees touching. They recalled the story of their courtship in exultant voices, stealing glimpses at each other, tears pooling in the corners of their eyes. She sent cards after every visit, covering the white space in her neat, looping script: Thank you for coming to see us. We love you. We pray for you and thank the Lord for you every day.
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On that day in 1996, I drive towards the mobile home community where they live. They are long since retired from the ministry, and I am no longer an acne-prone teenager in a baggy dress. I don't come to visit them as often as I want to, distracted as I am with plans and projects, but today I have finally made it, and I can't wait to see them. The sun is high in the sky; the air is moist and hot. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, humming to a tune on the radio.
Several blocks from their home, my breath catches in my throat: he is just a few feet in front of me, walking erratically across the street. Cars in both directions slow down as this white-haired man zig-zags through traffic, head darting this way and that. I pull the car over and jump out. He stops.
He is clutching a five-dollar bill in his fist. “I wanted to get you a hamburger,” he says, pointing to the Burger King at the corner. “You need something to eat.”
“No,” I protest, but he insists.
His pants are stained. He is wearing an undershirt, yellowed around the armpits, sagging at the neck. His jaw is flecked with gray stubble, the first time I have ever seen him not clean-shaven. I want to sit down on the sidewalk and howl. I want to weep for hours: for him, for her, for me, for the whole world.
Instead, I take his arm. We walk to the Burger King and order a Junior Whopper. He holds the grease-dappled bag as we walk out.
Back in the dim coolness of the mobile home, they sit together on the couch while I take a seat in the chair opposite. He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief while I chew the burger; limp gray puck on a sweaty white bun, sweet red ketchup easing its lumpy passage down my throat.
“You're so good to come, dear,” she says, eyes magnified behind her glasses. “We know you're busy, and you have so many other things you could be doing.” She clucks her tongue softly. “You're so kind to spend time with old people like us.”
I smile weakly, not trusting myself to speak.
Several years later, after his funeral, my mother calls me in California: “It was a lovely service,” she says, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
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Sometimes I inspect my own hands, as if in gazing at them, I will be able to divine the future. After years of plunging them into scalding water, of canning fruit and plucking chickens and rinsing diapers, the skin on the backs of my hands is thin and wrinkled. In certain light, I can see constellations of brown spots poised and ready to emerge.
I think of all that lies ahead, and I tremble a little bit.
We are butterflies, all of us. Beautiful. Fragile. Finite.
