Of Heather and Thistle

Chapter 3

As I turn onto the familiar tree-lined street, a swell of nostalgia washes over me. The old oak trees stand like sentinels, their branches outstretched in a welcoming embrace. Their leaves are tinged with autumn's warm hues, another reminder that nothing lasts forever.

The old white house creeps into view, and it's a melancholy sight. Its once pristine paint now peels away in ragged strips, revealing the weathered boards beneath. The shutters hang crookedly, barely clinging to rusted hinges. This aging home, which once held so much joy and laughter, now stands forgotten. I pull into the driveway and kill the engine, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the front door, working up the nerve to go inside. I take a few deep breaths to try and calm my nerves, but my stomach is still doing somersaults. It's been about a year since I last visited and the house has fallen into even more disrepair, which at the time I didn't think possible.

It looks like someone ran their car into the mailbox out front. It must have been dad; he always claimed he's "just buzzed" and acted like he was fine to drive, even as he'd slur his words and stumble around. This isn't the first time his drunken antics have ended with a smashed mailbox or dented garage door. He's lucky he hadn't killed anyone in one of his many drunken demolition derbies. I'm ashamed of how many nights I'd hoped he would wrap himself around a tree and not harm anyone else in the process.

My breath catches in my throat as I slowly approach the front door, my heart pounding in my ears. I have to remind myself to keep breathing, taking deliberate, shaky breaths to try and calm my nerves. But a fresh wave of anxiety washes over me when I lift the mat and see that the spare key is still there, untouched. Of course it's there - where else would it be? But the familiar sight makes my hands tremble even more as I realize there's no turning back now. I let out a soft, jittery sigh and take the key, fumbling to fit it in the lock. All I can do is keep breathing, in and out, even though each inhale feels like it might be my last. Just a few more steps and I'll be inside.

I shake my head with a heavy sigh as I step over the all-too-familiar scene in the entryway - a graveyard of empty liquor bottles scattered across the floor. I sigh at the sight of the living room, which is an assault on the senses. Empty beer cans litter the coffee table like a frat house after a rager, mingling with piles of stale mail and cigarette butts that overflow from the brimming ashtray. The stench is overwhelming. I wouldn't dare sit on the stained, tattered couch which looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years. The nicotine stained walls are covered in rectangles where family photos used to hang proudly. All were removed when the sight of my mother became too hard to bear.

Wading through the sea of filth strewn across the floor, I'm met with a kitchen that could make a maggot gag. Half-eaten scraps litter every surface as cockroaches scurry for cover from the intruding light. The sink brims with dishes caked in ancient grease, each giving off its own unique stench as if competing to be named the most rancid. Holding my nose does nothing to block the stomach-turning funk permeating the air. Clearly, hygiene was not a priority. I feel a tinge of guilt surveying this utter train wreck - If I had stuck around, the indentured housekeeper that I was, I would've never let it get like this.

Last I saw, my childhood bedroom was the catch all for trash, beer cans and other discarded items. My father, in his apathy, never bothered to properly dispose of his waste. Instead he let garbage pile up, as if this room was no longer meant for his daughter, but rather his own personal landfill. I sighed as I tried to push the door open, but could barely squeeze it more than a few inches before hitting the wall of forgotten possessions. What once was my reprieve is now a monument to neglect. The master bedroom was the most sorrowful room of all. As I stepped through the doorway, my heart sank. The dark, gloomy space only deepened my despair, enveloping me in the same all-consuming grief that had tormented my father for so long. This place that was once filled with warmth and love had become a haunting mausoleum. With every glance around the room, I could feel myself falling deeper into that pit of hopelessness that my dad wrestled with every single day. This cold shell was more than just a bedroom. It was the very embodiment of our family's anguish. The bed was a dumpster. A landfill of trash. Among the piles of rubbish that littered the mattress, there was barely enough room for a child to curl up, let alone an adult. Empty beer cans rolled around like tumbleweeds. Moldy takeout containers oozed mysterious liquids, their stench wafting through the air. It was a biohazard zone, a hazardous waste dump - yet somehow, this was where a person was expected to sleep. The thought alone was enough to make one's stomach churn.

*Fuck.*

I have to get out of here. I can't take it anymore, this house is suffocating me. The pain etched into these walls is closing in on me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I have to escape before it swallows me whole. The torrent of grief starts to claw at my skin and my heart pounds as I gasp the putrid air in this suffocating tomb. I think to myself, '*Did he die in here?'* Dad's grief grabs me like a demon, threatening to pull me into the depths of despair. I'm that desperate child again, fighting for survival. The walls close in, the sorrow crushing me. If I don't leave right now, I'll never be able to escape this wave of depression. I'll be swept away forever.

I sprint down the hallway, the pounding of my heart drowning out the sounds of my frantic footfalls tripping over the decay found throughout this fucking house. Shadows dance along the crumbling walls of my psyche - I dare not look back, though I can feel the icy breath of the ghosts on my neck, their clawing hands just inches from snatching me into their grasp. My father's rageful screams echo all around, cursing and condemning me as he chases me. Just a little further now. I have to make it to the exit before those vengeful spirits drag me back. All I see is the door growing closer as I run for my life from the ghosts of my past. I burst out the door with my heart pounding. The fresh air hits me like a truck as I shiver uncontrollably, wrapping my arms around myself does nothing to stop the bone-deep chill of fear. I can't move. I can't think.

My hands tremble as I take slow, shuddering breaths. "It's okay, it's okay," I whisper to myself, though the quavering words do little to calm my pounding heart. This familiar terror creeps through my veins like ice—the dizzy hyperventilation, the vice-like tightness in my chest. I've endured these paralyzing attacks before. But right now, it feels like the panic will swallow me whole. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to remember what my therapist taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In...and out. But the more I struggle for control, the faster the anxiety spirals. Just when I think I'm lost forever I feel a cold splash of water on my forehead. Then another. And another. I open my eyes and realize where I am. I'm in my mom's garden. And it's starting to rain.

I lift my burning face to the sky and let the frigid drops soothe my tired skin. Eyes closed, I stand still and breathe it all in, focusing only on the pitter-patter sounds and the relief the rain brings. With a few slow breaths, I find myself sinking down to the aged boards of the deck, my fingers deftly loosening the laces of my shoes. Slipping them off, I peel away my socks, craving the touch of the ground beneath me. In an instant, I'm padding softly down the steps, toes curling into the cool earth. A wave of tranquility washes over me as I connect with the land, the sheer panic of moments before are now a distant memory.

How many years has it been since I've done this? The nights after mom passed were the hardest. Dad, overcome with grief, sought to erase all traces of her from our home. Our rainy walks together through the forest on our property, once a cherished ritual, were now forbidden. I ached for any connection to my mother, no matter how small. When thunder rumbled outside my window, I'd sneak from my bed and tiptoe into the storm, letting the raindrops mingle with my tears. Each cold drop on my skin carried a memory of her. These stolen moments kept mom close as I learned to grieve her absence the only way I could.

I lost all sense of time as I wandered the grounds, tears streaming down my face one moment, laughter bubbling up the next. The canopy of trees and hum of wildlife seeking refuge from the downpour soothed my restless spirit as I searched within for the answers I sought. In the quiet solitude of nature, memories and emotions washed over me like waves - some joyful, others painful. The memories I shared with my mom here were only that - memories. Nothing tangible of my mother's, or even mine, remained. As I walk along this peaceful mountain path, I sense my mother's presence beside me. And to my amazement, I feel my father here too - not the angry drunk he became, but the gentle dad from my earliest memories. Their spirits surround me, filling me with warmth and comfort amidst the quiet beauty of nature. Though they are gone, in this moment it's as if we are together again, the pain and turmoil erased, left behind in the decrepit home that still stands. I pause and breathe it all in, tears of gratitude misting my eyes. Somehow, coming here has brought me peace, and given me back the parents I thought were lost forever.

With each step I shed a little more of my grief and found a little more peace. By the time the sun began to set the rain had stopped, lighting up the landscape in warm hues, I felt cleansed. The long shadows spoke of endings, but also new beginnings. The burden I had been carrying felt a little less oppressive now. With clarity and conviction, I knew exactly what needed to be done. This house would soon have a "For Sale" sign out front.