Thanks for the Memories…

That new car smell, the one that sticks for a good few months and then fades as you dirty up the car and get your own signature scents all over the place. But there are some days when that new car smell returns. And it takes me back to a year and a half ago when we first bought the car. It was our first road trip with it, driving through the night to go to Louisiana for family pictures.

A Monster energy drink was in the cup holder. Burger King wrappers on the floorboards. Jared sleeping in the passenger seat. Headlights glare in my rearview mirror. My only company is my narrator for Silver Screen as I proof the last of the files before approving. Stopping at Waffle House for a bathroom break. Arriving at my dad’s at eight in the morning, just in time for breakfast. The day that followed was exhausting, but unforgettable.

It’s a few simple notes. Hummed or sang without words. Played on loop, but never old or monotonous. Dramatic music follows, and I watch my husband play his videogame. As much as I love the storyline of Assassin’s Creed, it’s dangerous if I play. So, I’ll watch him parkour and assassinate historical figures for the betterment of The Creed, preserving the Apple of Eden and the fate of humanity. Those few notes put me back on the couch, watching Ezio or Connor run through the crowded streets of medieval Italy or colonial America. It never gets old and it probably never will.

When I hear “Good Morning, Heartache” by Ella Fitzgerald, I’m back in Sharpsburg Maryland on September 17th, 2018. It wasn’t the first time I had heard this song and it wasn’t the last. But each time it plays, I remember the way the rain speckled my windshield. Hurricane Florence had passed through that weekend, but I was determined to go to Antietam for the release of my Civil War novel. I was on my way back from Burnside Bridge, driving back to the visitor’s center for one more look through the museum.

I was hungry because it was close to dinner time, but I didn’t know where to eat. The street was lined with parallel parked cars. Pedestrians on the sidewalks. I had a long drive through the Shenandoah mountains ahead of me that evening, but I knew I had to make one last stop. If I didn’t, I’d regret it. I didn’t know when I’d ever pass by these plaques again, or when I’d see that field of soybeans where tall stalks of corn used to grow. I sang to the song, letting myself feel the lyrics and it imprinted somehow, knowing that my trip was near its end.

Touch of the Wolf by Susan Krinard. The cover alone takes me back. Age twelve. Too young to be reading a romance like that. My first. Curled up in my Granny’s chair. The microfiber rubbed my elbows raw when I shifted to turn the page. It was late, everyone else in the house was asleep. The television was off, the house dark except for the touch-sensitive lamp on the end table beside me. The smell of bacon grease from that morning’s breakfast hung in the air, mixed with the smell of her crocheted blanket over the back of the chair. Her old perfume clung to the fibers.

Just a whiff of Salem cigarette smoke puts my dad in the driver’s seat. We’re on our way to Houston to see Phantom of the Opera. My hair’s been highlighted for the first time. My first straightener is in the back seat with the dress my mom and I bought at Dillard’s for the occasion. The wind from the open window in my face. Southern gospel on the radio. My dad’s bass singing voice makes me smile. I feel of the tan leather seat. The interstate is packed, but I’m with my dad and it’s one of the things we will always share.

Not much has changed about the stoplight at the end of Valley Road. There’s still a gas station to the right and ahead, and the plaza with the Mexican restaurant on the left. It’s still a long light, and when I stop, I remember my mom. I remember how we drove all the way down Valley from my childhood home and laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe. I don’t remember what we were laughing about. But we laughed and laughed all the way to that stoplight. We paused, and then looked to one another, only to start laughing again. We ate at Red Lobster that evening and I don’t remember what we ate, but I can’t remember another time when we laughed so hard and so long.

There’s a spot at the end of a building at the high school. I can still feel the harsh, rough texture of the red brick against my back, snagging on my clothes. Fifth period, freshman year in May. I’m a teacher’s aide, able to come and go as I please for the most part. Mr. Keith at least wanted me to tell him when I left. That day, I did. To meet my boyfriend under the catwalk of that building. The highway ahead was busy with cars. The spring sunshine was warm, but not too warm. Prom was the month before, when I thought he’d kiss me. I hinted at it, but it never came. He had asked me once before if he could, but the time wasn’t right or it wasn’t romantic enough. I couldn’t remember the reason, but I remembered when it happened.

His hand slipped behind my neck and tilted my lips to meet his. At the time, I didn’t know how to breathe during a kiss. So I held it. But to this day, I can remember how he smelled, how he tasted. Nothing’s changed. A million kisses and eleven years later, we’re married. I went back to that spot and wrote in permanent marker on the catwalk post “My first kiss was here”. We took our engagement photos in that same spot, recreating the kiss that started it all.

Sharp, short, scratchy whiskers make me miss my Pawpaw. He could never get a close enough shave, or he always let it be that short on purpose. I’ll never know. The dark gray stubble would rub at my cheeks when we hugged or kissed goodbye. An embrace I dreaded at the time, but miss dearly now. I wouldn’t want to hug him at the end or start of any visit because of something so trivial. Just one of the many regrets I have with that man who once told me he’d do anything for me and my mom. And he did all he could. I wasn’t grateful enough at the time, but better late than never.

The vanilla essence of IBC root beer pairs perfect with instant mac-n-cheese. I will fight you on this one. They’re even better with cartoons at my dad’s house. The walls are painted all different colors. Posters on the walls. Dolls in the closet. A creaky canopy bed to my back that bangs against the wall if I bounced on it. Wearing nothing but a big t-shirt that I still have in my drawers at home. My legs crossed under the little coffee table set up in the middle of the room. Coloring books scattered across the surface. I had to make room when dad brought in the hot bowl and brown bottle. Sometimes he’d sit with me and watch the show and we’d talk while I waited for my lunch to cool down. I might have only been eight or nine, and I don’t remember what we said, but I remember he was there. I don’t like any other brand of root beer.

It doesn’t matter if I’m at work or a supermarket. At home or far away. If I hear your keys jangling on your belt, I will turn my head and look for my husband. For years, he’s worn his keychain on his belt and had far too many keys than any one man should have in his possession without being a janitor. Around the house, at the store, in a quiet coffee shop, it didn’t matter. He’d always have them and when those keys are hung up for the last time, I’ll still turn and look for him until I’m old and can’t hear a thing anymore. Maybe I’ll still hear them.

There’s a perfume that isn’t available anymore. Believe me, I’ve looked. My mom would save it for a special occasion, conservative to the last drop. When she sprayed that, I knew we were going somewhere. I’d sit on her bed and watch her get ready in the bathroom, applying mascara and lipstick. Then spraying it on her wrists. If they ever brought back that fragrance, I’d buy a dozen bottles.

The phases of the moon have been on a constant rotation since the beginning of time. New, crescent, waning, half, waxing, and full. The moon will forever capture my imagination. If it’s all gold and full, I will stop in the middle of my sentence and scream “LOOK AT THE MOON!!!” It’s just who I am. But there is one phase I won’t scream about. The half-moon. Like a grinning face, it looked down on my one September night. The air was clean and crisp, the aroma of the mountains all around. Crickets sang in the background as I walked to my car. I looked up to the sky, but I wasn’t smiling back. I couldn’t. I was leaving when I didn’t want to. My feet would never touch this soil again. By midnight, I’d be in another state, far away and unlikely to come back. I didn’t do all I wanted, but that wouldn’t be my only regret. So I took one last look to the half moon and its mocking grin against the starry sky. Then I climbed into my car and drove away.

The crunch of freshly fallen snow brings with it the chill of winter in the northwest. Walking up and down hills, along the sidewalks and across the icy blacktop. I never slipped, never slowed down. A whole three miles, almost every day, by myself. The walk from school to home wasn’t easy for those few years in Portland, but for a Florida girl, they were amazing. Bundled up in my coat, hands shoved in my pockets, the scarf around my face to fight back the wind, my fur-trimmed hood flipped up. My phone is clutched in one fist, waiting for it to vibrate and tell me that my boyfriend was calling. In the other was my mp3 player, the earbud cord trailing up through my coat to my ears. The hem of my jeans was soaked. Melted snow seeped through my boots and my toes were numb. At the time, it was grueling. But I could walk that path in my sleep, and I’d walk it again if given the chance.

I’ll sing every line to Stronger by Sara Evans. I could sing it in my sleep. It’s the anthem of every lost loved one, every broken heart, every lost friendship in my life. It’ll forever empower me and remind me that no matter how difficult it seems, things always get better. With each passing day, it’ll get easier. I can breathe again, I’ll be able to remember without sorrow or embarrassment. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.