Photography by Lori K. Tate
Some of the homes in my neighborhood are being torn down to make way for newer, grander structures. It’s to be expected, as I live in an older neighborhood. Sometimes I think the teardowns are legitimate; other times I think a good renovation would have been a better route. Either way, I’m just a spectator watching to see which brick is destroyed and which brick is laid, which windows are shattered and which ones are installed. It’s a fun game. (John and I even make bets about it.)
It’s more bittersweet for him because he grew up in our neighborhood and knows the history of these homes. A typical southerner, he refers to houses by who owned them when he was growing up, even though most of those folks have either moved away — or died. Regardless, the house on the corner still belongs to the Youngs, even though they haven’t lived there for 20 years.
As someone whose roots run deep in nearby Cabarrus County, I understand. Driving along Cold Springs Road, named for the natural spring that runs behind my home church, I can name who lived in almost every house. John gets the biggest kick out of it, but for me, it’s sacred history. It’s a randomly crafted community that’s provided an abundance of love and support for my family across decades.
Sadly, the cast of characters I grew up admiring are taking their final bows. Each time one of them passes away, it feels like the dismantling of my childhood. One day I’ll return to my hometown to find that there are more people I don’t know than I know.
It’s human to think that you’re going to live forever. It’s even more human to think that the important people in your life are invincible. We know in our heads that we’re all mortal, but our hearts have selective retention and believe that everyone will go on just as they always have. If only.
Two weeks ago, I was brutally reminded that we’re not guaranteed forever. A friend, who grew up off of Cold Springs Road, texted that a close friend of my family had been killed in an accident. Some bricks are carefully taken out of a structure; others are removed without a second to spare. Just like that, a man I had known and loved my whole life, the father of one of my oldest and dearest friends was gone.
Death is tough no matter what form it comes in, but when it arrives with no warning, it’s cruel. As my friend said in her father’s eulogy, “When the unthinkable happens and you lose someone so amazing without warning, it makes time stop. Memories flood your mind.”
Sitting through the memorial service this past Saturday, I was inundated with memories. I looked at the congregation in the church where I grew up. I saw the people who were sitting there physically, and I remembered the ones who weren’t — the ones who used to sit in those same pews, believing that they always would. It was almost too much to bear, but deep in my sadness, I found gratitude.
I was grateful for a childhood filled with climbing trees in the churchyard, plunking out Heart and Soul on the old piano in the fellowship hall and youth group meetings on Sunday nights. I was grateful for playing Four Square as a scout on Wednesday evenings, chopping barbecue in the fall and singing cantatas at Christmas. I was grateful for good deviled eggs, notes of support and Easter corsages. And I was grateful for the man we were there to remember because he encouraged me so many times in my life.
Love hurts just as much as it heals. If you’re lucky, you get to experience both. If you’re really lucky, you realize the beauty in that. And if you’re extremely lucky, you can go home, remembering all the love from the folks who are no longer there and taking in the love from the ones who still are.