Standing at the counter, I am watching this elaborate rail system weave up, around and through the warehouse dry cleaners. Neatly pressed and bagged clothes are in clusters, tagged and identified for pick up. Corresponding tag numbers are on our ticket, because those are our possessions and we want them back to reuse.
Memories are like that. Every once in a while, the sound of a baritone voice in a restaurant or someone whistling while they work or the sweet scent of skin on a tshirt sweeps me up and whisks me along fast moving rails to a memory. In that instant, I pull forward those long tucked away moments to feel them again in real time.
I grew up in Silicon Valley long before somebody, somewhere made it into something it's not. My home was at the cusp of apricot orchards and involved all day bicycle wanderings into the foothills and to the percolation ponds for pollywogs.
Back then, the days were long. Back then, a little girl could wander and explore. Sometimes I was so lost in play it would startle me to realize the day was darkening and street lights were coming on, and I was a ways from home.
My dad would begin his nightly walk, cigarette in hand, up and around the neighborhood, in a leisurely stride and happy whistle. That was my call home. I would dash out from under a bush and fall in step with him, taking his hand. Even when darkness had fallen and dinner was warming under a tent of foil in the oven he waited on me, asked about my adventures, and led me home. How glad I am to have these claim tickets now that he's gone.
NMcC
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