text: Memories are forever, that’s what they say. Another visit to my childhood home reminds me of those sweet memories. The grass is green and full; the tree is fruitful. The covered porch still provides protection from the rain and is home to a great spot to pull out a book on a cool spring morning; a morning like this one. Walking up to the front door allowed for plenty of time to let it all sink in. The happiness, the sadness. The good, the bad. It feels real. The screen door greeted me with its groaning. This sound became the norm when I would run out to play with friends, as long as mother approved and my homework was done, of course. I reached into my purse and found the key ring. The square one would do the trick. I inserted the key and felt the deadbolt move as I rotated it... Voila! Home sweet home. The warm air embraced me as I walked through the door. The fireplace kicked on as if I had just caught it slacking off. From the entryway, I peered into the kitchen aka my second classroom. Many tears stained my 8th-grade math homework at that table. Mother always dried them by serving up a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies. The flooring groaned beneath my feet as I loitered in the entryway, taking it all in. The stairs looked remarkable. The hardwood tread remained untouched. Despite its supposed perfection, I knew where its scars were. Third step up from the bottom of the staircase, next to the banister, there was a sliver of wood missing. Barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. But I was because I did it. I was a little girl when we had discovered the joys of sliding down this staircase. You see, back then there were thick strips of fabric that ran up the center of the staircase. Mother said it was to help us not slip as we walked up and down the tread. Little did she know about our newest endeavor. We slid down the stairs for hours. Laughing, crying, feeling the soreness in our backsides from the smack of the tread as we passed over. One day we got the urge to go faster. We wanted to go so fast that we could open the front door and fly out onto the porch. My brother Tim found a cardboard box left over from Christmas gifts. We tore it up to make a cardboard sled. Tim, being the risk-taker, volunteered to go first. He planted himself firmly on the base of the cardboard and held onto the front to prevent his feet from sliding off first. I positioned myself behind him and on the count of three, he went. And boy did he go. That cardboard moved over each tread as if it were levitating. He made it out the front door in 2.5 seconds. He made it look so easy! I was eager to give it a go. He returned to the top of the stairs and gave me the sled. I positioned myself and gave him a thumbs up. Three, two, one... I was off, but not for long. Halfway down my left foot came off the cardboard and caught traction with the tread. My body did a 180 and next thing I knew I was taking a chunk out of that 3rd step with my tooth. One dentist trip later, mother found out what we were up to and removed the fabric that lined the steps. Something about not being able to afford our mischief. I gazed at the framed photographs lining the wall as I walked up the stairs. Mother and father. I don’t remember him much. He left us when I was still in diapers. She said someday we’d be together again. I waited and waited, but it never happened. Later I matured enough to understand that he’d passed away. Got sick. Tim and I were all Mom had worried about after that. We were all she needed in this life, she’d say. Tim and I hung three steps up. We were all dressed up, him with his comb-over and me with my perm. The distressed backdrop didn’t help us out at all. I hope Mother didn’t pay too much for these. Once at the top of the staircase I peered down the hallway. Walls lined with more pictures. On the left side, a small table still sat outside mother’s room. It really just caught plants and however much gum I could muster in a day. To the right was my room, and down at the end of the hallway was Tim’s room. I consider myself lucky. The bathroom was right next to my room. I was able to sneak in there before Tim every morning before school. Made him late a few times. I took a deep breath as I grasped the doorknob to Mother’s room. I opened the door and found that everything was exactly as I’d left it. It was cozy, inviting, and had a fresh floral scent just as it did when I was little. It was her hobby as a florist that brought this smell here. Roses, tulips, buttercups, and chrysanthemums. You name it, she grew it and cared for them with love. She garnered quite a reputation as the community florist. People didn’t just buy them because they were beautiful. They could tell the care that she had given to them and they respected and adored that about her. She gave that kind of love to everything and everyone she cared about. Her heart had no limits. I took one last breath and shut the door behind me. I made my way down to the kitchen table and pulled out my laptop and a notebook. No other place gave me the comfort and security that allowed me to work freely without interruption. After all, this book wasn’t going to write itself. A month goes by and I’m back for my routine checkup on the house. The screen door greets me once again. The house welcomes me with its usual comfort, but something felt off. An unexplainable chill. A glance confirmed that the fireplace wasn’t turned on, not that it needed to be. The summer heat was keeping it plenty warm outside. It should be nice and comfortable in here, but strangely enough, I wouldn’t mind the fireplace kicking on just to give me its familiar comfort. As if on cue, a hint of life shows and the fire begins to glow. I begin my usual rounds. Glancing at the chip in the 3rd step, I make my way upstairs. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. I switch on the lights and watch the hallway come to life, except for Tim's room. The light flickers just outside his door, barely hanging on. Well, light bulbs don’t last forever. There should be more bulbs in the storage room next to the kitchen. Walking past the living room I could see the fireplace barely keeping on. One problem at a time, I tell myself. Moving past the refrigerator I find the old storage room where mother used to hide our Christmas presents. It wasn’t a very good spot if you ask me. I crack open the door, dust everywhere. Looks like I found my next task after that pesky fireplace. Wooden shelves line the walls. Three shelves over and there they are in bulk packaging. Sixty-watt bulb: check. I quickly replaced the light bulb and returned the hallway to its former glory. I put my hand on mother’s door for a brief moment. Yearning to look inside I grasp the knob and turn it. To my surprise, the door remains shut. I try again... nothing. I look down and feel my heart skip a beat. A lock is more visible than ever. We’ve never had locks on our bedrooms and I know for a fact that this door has never been locked in my entire existence. Still trying to process it, I move to the storage room to see if any sort of key is hidden away. I rub my hands together as I pass into the kitchen. The fireplace is out. After a good ten minutes of searching, I reach my hand onto the top shelf and feel around. Dust, dust and... a key. I return to the door and insert the key into the lock. Mechanisms turn and the door greets me with a groan as I open it. I peek in expecting some grand change. To my surprise it remained untouched, but it’s colder. Much colder. Even with everything in its place, there’s still a sense of emptiness. I reach my hand along the wall to turn on the light. The bulbs barely muster any light. They are dim, ready to burn out at any second. Great. At this rate I’ll need to buy a whole year’s supply of bulbs for each visit. A quick trip to the storage room and two packs of bulbs later, mother’s room shines with life. The boxes remain on the table as I move on. Feeling accomplished but disheartened by the unexpected repairs, I returned to the kitchen table to work, donning a sweater in the process. The leaves begin to turn; orange and yellow cover the street. I return to see the tree has lost most of its leaves. I make my way to the door, loosening my scarf in the process. The usual screech is accompanied by a subtle ‘crack’. I finish opening the screen door and witness a piece of the hinge fall to the porch. I turn the key and open the door to the house, preparing to take off my coat as I feel the warmth of the fireplace welcome me out of the crisp fall air. To my disappointment, I kept my coat on, and re-tighten my scarf. I quickly run over to the fireplace to get it going. The gas turns on, but no flame. The tread began to moan under my feet. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. As I reached the top, I see Tim’s light was out again and so was mine. I became disheartened as I glanced over at mother’s door and saw that her light was flickering. The bulbs sat on the side table. After mother’s light the box was empty. As I placed it back on the table I couldn't help but look at the lock on her door. It felt different. I pulled the key from my keyring, moving with hesitation. I insert the key and begin to turn it. Stuck. Confused I turn it in the opposite direction. Stuck. Overwhelmed I step back from the door, leaving the key in what used to be its home. I don’t understand I repeated to myself over and over, feeling tears of frustration well up in the corners of my eyes. I sat on the top tread with my elbows propped on my knees, my head in my hands, trying to make sense of it. That key had worked last time in the lock that wasn’t even supposed to be there. It had never been there. A sense of loss began to fill inside of me. There must be another way. If there’s a lock then there has to be a key to open it. I just have to find it. Determination propelled me down the stairs and straight into the storage room. I began rummaging through the shelves using more and more force as time went on. Behind the box of spare nuts and bolts? No. What about the old key box on the wall? Of course not. I searched high and low only to come up empty-handed. The more I look for what seems to be a figment of my imagination, the less time I have for why I come here every month. Deep breaths. One, two. In, out. I’ll figure this out. I always do. But for today, a cup of hot chocolate, mom’s favorite, will wash away the anxiety. I sit down, begin to type away, and lose myself in my notes, trying not to worry about the issues that plague me. Those lights outside of mother’s room would burn out without me noticing, and that would be the last time they were ever alive. Months pass now. A blanket of snow covers the streets. The sidewalk hadn’t been cleaned since first snowfall. On the slow, methodical trek to the porch, I notice the paint chipping on the east corner of the house, next to the living room window. The house begins to show its age. The screen door made its usual complaint, also reminding me that I still haven’t fixed the bottom hinge. I remove my thick mittens and retrieve the house key. Shivering, I finished opening the door, only to wish that I had brought a bigger coat. My breath danced away from my face. The glass on the face of the fireplace was frosted. The storage room held no solutions. I’d have to call someone about this. In the meantime, hot chocolate will warm me right up. Just the way mother made it. I retrieve a pot from the cupboard, fill it with water and place it on the stovetop. I turn the knob to find that the pilot light won’t even show. That memorable clicking sound from breakfast with mom won’t even sound. That’s dead too. Of course it is, just my luck. I grabbed a pack of light bulbs from the storage room anticipating what awaits me upstairs. I carry on, bringing my frustration along with me like a dear friend. Mother, Father, Tim, myself. The lights over the staircase began to dim as I moved along the tread. Darkness engulfed me as I reached the top of the stairs. Every bulb was out. Only natural light from downstairs was able to find its way up, providing enough light to avoid tripping. Approaching Tim’s room brought a sense of calmness and warmth. Something this house was missing too much of. Once I reached his door, the good feelings washed away and were replaced by more frustration. It’s done. The light socket is completely fried. I groan and begrudgingly move to my room. More frustration. Then disappointment fills my heart. I’ve loved this home. What’s happening? Turning to mother’s room, I test the durability of the box of bulbs on her door. A loud crunch answers that. As the box crashes to the ground, my hands begin to shake with anger. This door. Why... I stopped short of the door, acknowledging the lock. The key... I left it in there last time. I know I did. Where.. Where did it go? I grasped my head, trying to maintain my balance as the room spun around me. Why do you keep me out? A sense of desperation fills my voice. The answer lies hidden; a memory surrounded by fog. I regain my senses long enough to reach out. I turn the knob. It’s still locked. I turn it again, breathing faster and faster with each attempt. Come on. Come on...Come on! The fog begins to swirl. Why won’t you let me in?! Fists meet the door as my emotional pot begins to boil over. Why can’t I come in?! Fists louder now; eyes swell. Why can’t I see you?! Fists throbbing, my foot meets the door with equal purpose. The fog begins to dissipate as the tears fall to the floor. Why can’t you just remember? Why can’t we be normal again? The desperation turns to pain. Not physical pain. The pain of losing someone even though they are still with you. Knowing that you’ll never have them the same again. I rest my head on the door. Knees weak, heart heavy. A sense of hopelessness fills my heart as the fog clears. I remember now. A hand rests on my shoulder. It’s Tim. His eyes are red and rest in dark circles. “You can do it. You’ve always been the strong one.” His smile gave me comfort in knowing what came next. I returned my gaze to the door, only it wasn't the same. The lock remained, but this door was fixed to a hospital room- room 428. The door was metal, the knob a handle. I grab it and finally felt the door release, letting me in one last time. Our family is gathered around the bed. People I hadn’t seen in years. They began to part as I inched closer, one foot in front of the other. As the crowd cleared, I saw her. She was hooked up to life support. Had been for some time now. It felt like ages, really. She wasn’t exactly conscious., not that it mattered. She wouldn’t remember me now. She forgot my name about three years ago. Tim’s five years. No, she wouldn’t remember us at all, no matter how hard we tried. I leaned over and grasped her hand. I shivered as I felt her skin, cold as ice. I spent what felt like an eternity staring at her face. Burning it into my memory, wanting it to be as detailed as possible. I broke out of my trance and leaned into her side. I whispered in her ear: “I’ll always remember.” My heart sunk as I watched my mother take her last breath. The machine beside the bed relayed a steady tone. The grass looked greener than usual. Tim says he hired one of the neighbor boys to take care of things when we weren’t able to. The tree looked as alive as ever, shading my walk to the porch. The screen door opened without a complaint. I pulled out my key ring and held the key that Tim gave me in my hand. I inserted it into the door and turned, reading the inscription engraved within the door: Memories are forever. -THE END-