What we leave behind

I have been listening to birds twittering, chirping, screaming, and generally getting noisy now that the windows in the house are open to let in some non-humid air. I’m really tired of air conditioning. Every morning the two bird feeders in the back yard are jammed with noisy feathered critters, and recently, I’ve been paying attention to the noises they make.

The birds remind me of different places. I don’t know the names of the birds with specific sounds, but one of them sounds exactly like birds at the grandmothers’ houses - one in Georgia, one in Virginia. Every time I hear its noisy little self, I’m transported back in time to different places. I wonder how long this aural memory has been with me, and I’m finally paying attention.

I’ve also been wondering what I’ll leave behind of any significance. My books, sure, but they’re not so important or specific to each person in my life. They are their own creations. What I have made for a specific person is what I remember. My extra closet is hung with childhood dresses my grandmother made for my mother, my mother for me, and me, for my children. I remember cross-stitching baby outfits and adding embroidered roses to others. There they hang, patiently waiting for me to take a peek at them now and then, and remember who wore them, and where, and why they were mama-made. The women in my family are sewers. It’s what we leave behind.

Bird calls and smocked dresses. What a treasure.