Before They Were Bombs

I’d give anything to be riding shotgun with my mom in her six-speed Saturn coupe, watching her juggle the stick, her Marlboro light, and a melting Dairy Queen dipped cone. In between drags she’d shift gears and hand off the ice cream. I’d shuffle through the radio static, landing on a country station playing something we both knew the words to. Whatever problems we had were none of my business. I was on my way to Mamaw’s house to catch fireflies with my cousins.

At eight years old I hadn’t attached symbolism or grief to any of the ordinary pleasures of a summer day. I hadn’t yearned for much, yet. I didn’t long to return anywhere. I didn’t know that this was the place I’d miss. As a kid you don’t know when you’re in the middle of a moment, awareness is only extended to the sweet treat in hand or the one you’re on the way to find.

My childhood comes back to me in locations. Our house on Blue Haven Drive, yellow with a full basement and a sloped driveway that was great for sledding but terrible for manual transmissions in the snow. The hamburger and hot dog drive thru joint, known for its sweet tea and chili dogs and bitchin’ 80’s aesthetic. My mom’s car, red with a sunroof and a permanent essence of cigarette smoke and drugstore perfume. Mamaw and Papaw’s house, across the river with a flagpole in the front yard, a skylight above the fireplace, and a formal living room that was off limits.

These were the only places I knew.

I got a call last week, the day before my 40th birthday, that Mamaw’s cancer had grown and it was time to stop pumping her full of chemicals and let nature have its way. My husband and I had been planning a road trip through the Ozarks in Arkansas, but after I hung up the phone with my dad, I knew I needed to go east.

We drove into my hometown on my birthday. It was Josh’s first time. I tried explaining how nothing looked the same as it had when I was a kid. The grocery store was new, the strip malls didn’t exist back then, and the house I’d grown up in was much bigger before. We pulled into Mamaw’s driveway and walked up the sidewalk to the porch where my dad met us, cigarette in hand.

Stepping into that house feels both sacred and devastating every time. Her mauve carpet hurts my feelings. I’m reminded that there was once so much noise and joyful chaos in this place. I’m faced with the truth of what we’ve all become—older. Even the pink carpet is not immune to the effects of time.

To my right is the room we weren’t allowed into as kids, the one with plastic still covering the black and white striped sofa, glass side tables adorned with figurines collecting dust. It’s a gut punch. I dip my toe across the threshold, half expecting an alarm to start blaring or Mamaw to sense my intrusion from the back bedroom and come screaming down the hallway to smack me with her hairbrush. She doesn’t notice. She’s sitting in her chair in front of the TV watching Britain’s Got Talent best of compilations.

She’s frail. Tired. I could sense that she was deep inside herself, lost in thought and wondering where it would take her. I asked her what she was thinking about and at first she softly said, “Nothin.” After a long pause she admitted, “Just goin’ to heaven, I guess. Won’t be long.”

How did we get here so fast?

The skylight above my head, the one that used to seem like a magical portal from my fairytale books, now felt like a threat. I used to think a skylight was just about the best thing a person could have in their house and swore I’d have one of my own one day. I hate it, now. It seems to pull everyone up and away too soon. First Mom, then Papaw, now her.

I took Josh to the nostalgic drive thru burger joint and got one of each of my favorite things for him to try. I miss the days when a chili dog was just a chili dog. Now, it’s a reminder that we can never go back, a slap right in my hillbilly face. The styrofoam cup sweats in my hand, the feeling so familiar that I can’t breathe. Pieces of my life keep disappearing but this remains.

We left to spend the fourth of July in North Carolina, a quick scenic drive from East Tennessee. Mamaw squeezed my hand and didn’t want to let go, “I hope I’ll see ya,” she said as I kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.” I will.

I sat with my husband and the rest of a sleepy mountain town in a park to watch fireworks. I smiled at the kids running wild with excitement through the grass, ice cream dripping down their faces and dogs barking at their heels. Flashes of color—blue, green, red, gold and white lit up the sky and transported me to 1995. I remembered how much I loved the fireworks, how they lit up the faces of the people around me, how the sound was a little too loud so I’d cover my ears. I remembered when all I saw was dazzling light. Before they were bombs, they were magic.