What Color Melancholy?

Many might say melancholy stains your psyche blue.  Others may swear it's more of a sepia-toned emotion. I'm not altogether sure, for I picture the setting sun on what has been my life until now, and it glows a rosy mauve.

At this very moment I sit in an old office chair given to me by my dear father the day he resigned from the Press Enterprise. The leather conforms nicely; my aged backside nestles securely, as if cupped in a loving, worn hand.  It still hints of my father's pipe.  Although he's been gone for over two decades now, I smell his presence.

I've no more fight left in me.
So it has come to this; a letter from the Board of County Supervisors, signed by thee Chairman of the Board, labeling the accolades of the Neighborhood Initiative Grant of 2010. And that, as they say, is that.

I reminisce the day my husband and I purchased this cottage I've called home for the past 42 years. I was 25, he a tad older. Together the two of us started out on this adventure called life, naive and resolute. We had little in our pockets and not much more collateral than hungry aspirations and a strong belief in each other.

It's a fairly small house in comparison to its neighbors. Two bedrooms, one and a half baths, a small sitting room, an eat-in kitchen and what Cliff lovingly called our library, which was no more than a family room belching with old books and reference manuals.  The old, roll-top desk Cliff sat at for years writing his books and taking plethera notes is where I'm planted now, seated in this old leather chair of Dad's.

No, our home isn't much on the inside.  But Cliff and I, we made it ours.  Over thirty years ago we extended the porch, stretching every penny until we could add a nice private sitting area back there. A glass French door opens itself into a place, in my opinion, rivals even thee Garden of Eden.

We'd placed some water elements, complete with a waterfall and a trellis, which is currently the home of beautifully fragrant honeysuckle vines.  Oh, how we loved to sit back there; Cliff with his tinkering, me harassing my plants, just enjoying each other's company. So beautiful. So peaceful. So missed.

How many times these past thirteen years have I found respite in our garden?  The day after Clifton died I moved the small patio table to just under the Black Locust he planted on our 10th wedding anniversary; his gift to me. The tree continues to reward and comfort me every May on our Anniversary when it covers my life in white, fragrant blooms. For months I sat at that small, white cast-iron table, day after day mourning his calm presence I'd never feel again.  Looking back I realize it's at that time I began drinking mint tea. It had been Cliff's favorite. I had so much of it in the cupboard after, it seemed somewhat unnatural to waste it. Felt a bit like a slight to his memory. The warm aroma is reminiscent of his soft breath as his lips would brush mine. Mint tea has since become my daily staple.

He and I never had children.  That particular chapter was omitted from our story.  Therefore, we never outgrew this home.

It seems this changing city has outgrown me. I no longer recognize the town in which I've lived for a substantial slice of my life.

The letter in my hand states our home is being sold to a land reclamation project. Eminent Domain, they call it. I will be handsomely reimbursed, they say. My home will be razed, they report. Something will be built in its place, I hear.  All the memories of Cliff and I in our garden paradise will be lost forever when I cease to exist.

I've had a good life.  This home has been all I had ever hoped for, and more.  I suppose it's time to move on; take my ball and go home. I wonder where that will be? Where shall I move? Riverside has lost all meaning for me now. They're stealing my home out from under my leather desk chair to build a home or center for humans unwilling to work for one. No, Riverside is lost to those less fortunate than me.  I need to find a place where memories of Cliff and the life we held together won't soon be uprooted; a place a new garden may thrive and these older bones can settle without the threat of upheaval.  Cliff always spoke of living in New Mexico. I wonder if I'll find myself there someday.

Time to do some research.  If one has any suggestions as to where I my replant these gnarly old roots, please share. I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks for stopping by.
H