Memory Holding Spaces

I’m sitting under twinkle lights in the backyard. Night’s warmth removed its cloak and a slightly chilly breeze reminds me we’re in the sweet spot of transition. That time where winter dodges spring and spring is more than ready for its turn to play.

I love the cozy mood of twinkle lights. We put some up several years ago. One strand draped from one tree and around the patio’s perimeter. A few weeks later, I found the cord dangling in more than one place. One strand, several cords dangling. On closer inspection, they were gnawed. Could the puppy jump high enough to get them?

No, it wasn’t the puppy. Too small.

Squirrels.

We replaced them with a longer strand with a thicker cord. Chew proof. We liked them so much, we measured from patio to tree, to second tree, to third tree, and pack to the patio. They hung low enough to cast a cozy glow over the entire backyard any time of year, even in the hot, sticky, throes of summer, cicadas dizzying us with their clatter as we sip drinks that don’t stay cold long, sweaty glasses holding sweet sips we sometimes press up to our foreheads for relief.

I’m sitting under the twinkle lights, around an empty fire pit that keeps us warm those fall evenings when we go out to roast marshmallows after we’ve holed ourselves up inside, protecting us from summer nights—still, in October—with sweaty glasses holding watered down drinks. We’ve grown tired of it and mosquito bites, and thick, suffocating air, and those cicadas. Their songs are on repeat, can they please stop?

I sit under the twinkle lights where 21 years ago we hung Ethan’s first birthday piñata, where parents helped their littles pull a string and candy sprinkled the yard. Kids bent over to pick some up and life was ripe with good expectations of the unknown parenting trek we all joined.

I sit under the twinkle lights where Sophia’s trampoline once stood. We sat on it. Jumped on it. Squealed. Laughed. It squeaked rhythmically, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again. We held hands and jumped in circles.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie! I chanted, making up a new word.

“Again, Mammy-Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

On I went, jumping so hard my thighs burned and inevitably my calf muscles started cramping.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

Miss Bonnie next door waves from her patio. Water drips from hanging baskets holding her geraniums. “You’re going to get lots of jumping out of that trampoline. You be sure to jump with her as much as you can. I can tell you’re having fun.”

I sit under the twinkle lights where my husband set up the new adirondak chairs for my 50th birthday party. The trampoline came down. My own piñata hung over the same tree Ethan’s did years ago. This time, mini bottles of rum and tequila with candy for the teens sprinkled the yard.

The bottles are for the adults!

The next morning, Sophia asks about the trampoline. The last time she used it was on her eleventh birthday two years earlier, sprinkler underneath, gangly pre-teens jumping and vying for space. “That’s my trampoline and I want it back,” she huffs.

Here I sit, under the twinkle lights. Four empty chairs join me in a circle. Paint chips off them in bits since we didn’t do anything to protect them from the elements. The trampoline’s circle is still here, but it’s been replaced with mulch, the fire pit, and five chairs, our new outdoor gathering space.

I hear a piñata crack. Candy falls and little hands reach for treats. Gone now, Miss Bonnie’s water spray drenches her plants. We hold hands and jump in a circle. Springs squeak, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

“Again, Mammy Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”