I wonder about disappointment. How much she has seen. This house of mine. In her ninety years she must have accumulated all sorts of memories. And from the day we met I was determined to uncover as many as I could. Some I found apparent on the very skin of her. Others only came to light after scratching the surface. Some quiet. Some comforting. Some answered questions. A few inspired new ones. The walls are hard with the secrets of almost a century which have settled into the porous plaster and created a surface so solid it repels nails. Almost impenetrable. But not entirely. I know, because I’ve seen them be released. I’ve witnessed a kind of exhale. I’ve felt the house relax just enough to let go of a secret or two. And while they always elicited an emotional response from me, I realized they never really seemed to be delivered that way. It’s as if she was simply recounting facts, neither good, nor bad. Not full of happiness or sorrow, excitement or anxiety. Just a quiet narrative in a soft voice almost void of inflection.
At first I envied her. I longed for the ability to remember without angst. I wanted to be able to tell stories of my past without reliving the pain. I wanted the ability to recite my experiences with a smooth brow and an even heartbeat.
