Won't Take Nothin but a Memory

Every time I hear Miranda Lambert's latest hit "The House that Built Me" it makes me think of Mimi, and it happens a lot seeing as the radio stations love to play hit songs and beat them into the ground! If you haven't heard it, here are the lyrics to the chorus:

Thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healin
Out here its like I'm someone else
Thought that maybe I could find myself
If I could just come in I swear I'll leave
Won't take nothin but a memory
From the house that built me

The chorus precisely sums up how I felt last Wednesday when Austin and I pulled up to Mimi's house. There are a lot of houses that "built me". There's the house I lived in from the time I was born until I was 16, Granny's house where so many memories were made with my family from Chicago, the Scarpati's house that was like our family's second home, and countless others. Mimi's house ranks pretty high up there on shaping my childhood and shaping me into who I am though. The house is filled with memories from growing up. When I walked in her front door I could almost see her standing there with open arms to greet me with a hug. When I walked in the front sitting room I could see my dad sitting on the couch on Christmas. At the dining room table I could see the Easter Egg tower that she set out every year and a table full of food for the adults to eat. In the "green room" I could see my brothers and cousins sitting at Mimi's bridge table playing with her card shuffler and ash trays. When I closed my eyes, walking through her house was like taking a walk through my childhood. Remembering both Mimi and my dad at such happy times brought peace to my broken heart.

So when I found out the next day that I had been labeled as a pilfering thief for how I behaved in Mimi's house, I was hurt beyond belief. I can honestly say that I am not sure I have ever been more hurt in my entire life. More than hurt I was dumbfounded and in awe. At first I thought "Shame on me for putting myself in a position to even be accused of something like that" but then I thought "Shame on someone who knows me to believe for even one second that I am capable of that kind of behavior". Other than a picture of my dad that was sitting on Mimi's desk in her bedroom, there's not one thing in Mimi's house that I could have taken that would have brought me any peace or comfort. What I've lost is a relationship and no material items can replace that or fill the gap. I'm humiliated that someone would think I could have had any other intentions, and I'm regretful for anything I did to allow someone to believe that about me. I took a walk down memory lane as followed family through her house, not a walk through a flea market.

As for my grief process, I'm not ok and it is very frustrating to me. I cried through the entire funeral, cried when I entered her house, cried when I entered the church, cried that night as I fell asleep - I haven't experienced this kind of emptiness in a long, long time and I just feel (think) like it shouldn't be this way. Mimi lived a long, wonderful life and I was blessed beyond measure to have been a part of it. We knew her time would come, every one's does, and as she became more and more sick we knew her time was nearing. I had every opportunity to be ready for it, I took every opportunity I could to be with her and talk with her, so in my head I think I should be ok. But I'm not. My maternal grandmother passed away when I was a junior in high school and I can still remember walking out of my grief counselor's office after she told me. I wasn't sad or broken, I knew it was coming and it was ok. I thought I was pretty big and strong for handling it so well, so now I'm not sure if I wasn't so big and strong then or if I'm not so big and strong now.

I was hit by two freight trains last week. One when my grandmother died and the other when I was so horribly misunderstood. I can honestly say that seeing the freight train coming doesn't make it any less painful. It's still a freight train, and it still hurts.