Being Present is a Present

I notice the multitude of rosaries hanging on the side of my bed are covered in dust.

 I take them off, untangled them, try to recall where each one came from and why it is special.

 After laying them out I dust them off on the the tapestry we now use as a bed cover.

 The prayer beads around my wrist kept getting in the way, reminding me to be present in my present, even if it feels annoying.

I recall that I need to bring in my crystals that have been soaking in salt water under a full moon that recharged them.

On my path to retrieve my crystals, I pass a crucifix on the wall.

Oy.  This should be making my head hurt.

But it doesn't.

I look down at my hands to the ring on my thumb  that has the words "Inhale" and "Exhale" engraved.  I do as they say.

My eyes wander to my dresser.  I look at the photo of my mother and I.  A rosary, purchased from the place where she (and my father) are buried, drapes over the frame.

A small statue of an an angel sits in front of the picture.

The last gift she ever bought me.

My eyes drift further to another small statue; a Dia de Muertos figure riding a motorcycle adorned with shocking blond hair.

A gift to my love from her mother because it looks like my love.  All things being equal she rests on my dresser.

A dish my mother used for soap in her bathroom now holds the recharged crystals, and a small carved turtle.

Meredith's paintbrushes stick out of a vase that is filled with sand and shells from Naples, Florida.

An even smaller replica of sand and shells sits in my bathroom, and one in the living room.

Reaching the end of my visual journey is a photograph of Meredith's Grandmother.  A woman I will never meet.  That fact does not prevent me from conjuring stories about her.

The more I learn of her, the more human she becomes, and my stories become just that.  Fiction.

Fiction floats around my room and inside my head as I gaze at each object.  A clock from the 1930's.  How many people looked at it and realized they were late for some event?  Does it chime or make any sound?  Did women with long cigarette holders watch it on New Year's eve waiting to kiss someone?

In the 1970's was the clock lost to a box carefully taped and labelled "Dad's Stuff", only to reopened and treasured again 30 years later?

After putting my dust free rosaries back where they hang (unused), my eyes go back to the sand and paint brushes.

The sand makes me smile the smile of bittersweetness.  I will never go back to that sand again.  I will not throw all the kids in the car and make the 24 hour journey to spend days in that sand.

I will never walk the ramp of the airport to see my Mom waving with both hands as she always waved.  Hello or goodbye, both hands were always waved, like a believer in a tent church revival who waves in opposite direction than the rest of the flock.

I am at peace with this.

I am surrounded by objects that scream their memories to me, some fiction, some fact.  All come from the past.

 All reminding me to live in the present.

Inhale.

Exhale.