Prompt: Someone travels to see something

Pulling up to the house it wasn’t quite as I remembered it, but it was close. It was natural that she would have made changes to the home, but in my mind it had remained untouched.

I could see myself in the tree in the yard, feet swinging giddily as I reveled in my own genius hiding spot, spying to my heart’s content and merrily watching as Mamaw’s dog, Buster, puttered about.

I saw myself splashing in the creek bed, picking berried on the mountain behind her house, tossing a ball with all my might and watching Buster dutifully bring it back; rolling lemons on her kitchen counter to soften them so she could squeeze them into her lemonade.

My stomach turned. I felt embittered toward myself, thinking of all the times she had phoned and written, asking me to visit. Why was it only in her death that I returned?

Walking through the front door of the home, felt like visiting a museum—a very crowded museum. Only a retired art teacher could manage to accumulate so much stuff in one space.

No shelf, wall or countertop remained unused. She had photos of family, art she’d made and art she’d purchased. A sewing machine was huddled in the corner with fabric still laid out on the table. I picked it up, rubbing it between my fingers and wondering when it was that her hands too had touched this piece.  

As I walked into another room, I noticed it was filled with art created by her grandchildren. I’d always felt incapable in her presence—my own talents never quite measuring up to her own. So, it was with much surprise that I noticed several photos I’d taken, framed upon her wall. I may not have had her touch when holding a paintbrush but had managed to find my own safe space behind the lens of camera. I never thought she considered my work “real art.” I could only remember my own misshapen trees as we painted together and how her brush strokes amounted to much more than mine ever could.

What else did she in me? What else did I miss in her?