Key Lime Pie

Anderson is someone who was always able to recount the most minute details of his childhood. He can recall images of the family pet from when he was three years old. He remembers the color of the monkey bars at his pre-school and all the trivial car rides where he’d read the road signs as a way to test his mental fortitude. His grandparents would marvel at this child’s mini feat. The thing is, his mind was able to create symphonies. It allowed him to see cinematic images with his eyes closed. He could visualize things most could never imagine and he’d ultimately use that to escape a world that once constrained him.

Growing up in the low country of South Carolina imprinted on him the history of a nation. When the wind blew through the willows, the field songs of his ancestors rang in the distance. The cattail would sway to its rhythm and this beat would pacify roots of a pained history.

Opportunity was often a funny, trivial word. There, there was no opportunity. There were roles that you were cast into. Unspoken rules would say that one doesn’t veer too far from the path predetermined by their parents, and their parent’s parents, and their parent’s parent’s parents. Sometimes there were some lucky enough to see past this; a chance for agency. However, the only way to reach this nirvana of sorts was to escape; to get out of the low country. The options were few and far in between. If you didn’t have the mind; you needed to have the strength of sacrifice. Be willing to risk life for nation or be smart enough to avoid the choice.

Anderson had a mind and was also strong willed and determined. It wasn’t that he lacked the ability to sacrifice but there was a mental struggle of doing what he thought was right and the necessity to do whatever is asked and required. His mind would always win.

He set off. He left the low country and its old homes. He left the dirt roads, the stray dogs, the family gatherings, the people who knew him, and all that felt familiar. For years, he maintained distance between that place while creating new memories and new identities. He found modicums of success and joy in building relationships in environments with affluence, access, and opportunity. However; the veil of success was only covering saudades, a melancholy of longing for things left behind. The escape from his home and all that he knew seemed necessary to fill the holes that punctured his soul in his upbringing. A broken home and all the transmission of ancestral suffering never really left. It just transformed into an obsession with excellence and achievement as if achievement can rewrite history. Success never rewrites history. It just adds to the ending, creating new peaks and valleys along the way.

It’s spring and Anderson gets called home to celebrate his grandmother’s birthday. He doesn’t really know how old she is but not from lack of effort. Growing up, her age always fluctuated. At one point he believed that she was only ten years older than his mom. That was the way many southern women navigated the world at that time.

His trips home were starting to become so infrequent that they were dwindling down to annual trips dotted with missed birthdays, holidays, and memories. However, he felt that there was an urgency to this birthday. It was an opportunity to see as many family members at once so as to not have to extend his time there; being reminded of all that has changed, all that has been lost, and all that never was in his hometown. It also seemed as though he was in store for something special.

After a minor trek in the sky and a short drive from the airport, he was back home. He stopped by the bakery he grew up next to to pick up a key lime pie. It was his grandmother’s favorite. The bakery was hot on the inside and mostly empty. The decor hadn’t changed but he didn’t know the people working there. He asked if Ruth still was working in the back. The cashier looked puzzled as she apprised him that Ruth had passed away two years ago. It startled him for a moment but he took the pie in its discreet brown paper box.

This was home. But, home wasn’t home. Nowhere truly felt like home anymore. So much changes when you only see it once a year. The in-between time makes little ones taller, greys and wrinkles the elders, and fades and crumbles the homes he grew up in. These homes where Thanksgiving was held had new cracks in the foundation and tears in the ceilings. Time was not kind to structure in his hometown.

He walked up the brittle steps of his grandmother’s house. The doorway felt much lower than he could remember but upon entering he was met with more arms of embrace than he could count. It was overwhelmingly euphoric. He made his way past the entry and into the living room. In the corner sat the matriarch. His grandmother was reclined with a quilt draped over her legs. She was more still and silent than he was used to. As he got closer he revealed the brown paper box to her and a slight grin swept across her face. She took the box in both hands and stared down at it. Her grip tightened. She became suspicious of this brown box. Her eyes widened in fear. Suddenly, her breathing became more rapid as she began to pant.

“You ok, Grandma?”, He asked.

As he touched her shoulder she began howling guttural screams.

“What’s this?!” “Who are you?!” “Get it off me!”

By this time his aunts were beginning to drape their arms around his shoulders to usher him away from his grandmother. Her bouts with dementia were infrequent but were terrifying if not heartbreaking. He pulled away from them and ran out into the front yard. He gripped his abdomen as it began to turn and twist into knots and stumbled over to the weeping willow at the corner of the house. His back slid down the trunk of the tree he used to climb. He leaned his head back giving it a place to rest as his mind was overcome with feelings and thoughts of guilt and regret. His chest tightened and throat tightened as he tried to choke the tears from coming to his eyes. Nevertheless, one found its way out through the corner of his eye. He sat in this moment until he could find stillness. He opened his eyes to see the vines of the willow blowing in the wind. This felt familiar. This was true nostalgia. That melody swept through the vines and over his body. The tension released from his body and in that moment he found solace and strength in knowing that some things are preserved forever.