January in Berkeley

[olliegreenman]

It’s early January and 65 degrees in Berkeley. There is no breeze, and when I sit outside on the deck I’m reminded more of the still days of childhood summers than any winter I’ve ever known. It’s strange to feel so completely put out of time. It’s as though the world has gone back to the way it was when I was eight or nine, and I now look at everything from the naïve, curious perspective of such a young child, as if I am the only person still living. Even the lonesome cooing of the Mourning Doves on my neighbor’s rooftop reminds me of when I was four, chasing birds down the sidewalk with my father. I realize that that is still one of my favorite sounds.


When I sit cross-legged, I can see the dirty soles of my feet. I remember looking at my mother’s feet, hard and cracked and calloused, wondering if my soft baby feet would ever look like hers. I notice now how my own heels are starting to turn white.

The synagogue at the end of the street is pink now, instead of stark white and blue. It’s never as full as it used to be on Friday nights. Growing up, I remember people overflowing from the entrance and the way my mother would complain about the sudden lack of parking on our street, even though we have our own driveway. Those nights were something magical, the way that the sounds of singing and clapping would resonate all the way down the block, somehow both joyous and mournful at once. It’s much quieter now, and yet that building still keeps a sacred and mysterious presence on our block, as if by just walking past it you are touching it’s doorframe and blessing the entire street.

Christmas was different this year. There was no feast, just my father, my stepmother, and me watching the Simpsons and Shakespeare, eating pizza from the freezer. It was only my mother and me on Christmas morning, no chatty aunt or limping uncle or humming grandma. The cat replaced the dog in running-between-legs duty. It wasn’t bad, but it was different. It was calm. I was the only one at home to celebrate the new year, and I think I’m grateful for that. No one needs to be here to witness me going through the motions of letting go of this home. The Christmas tree is starting to dry and droop, just the way it did in all the Januarys of my childhood. I guess some things never change.

[DATo]

I found this story to be an excellently presented and compact 'study in nostalgia'. The passage of time illustrated by the description of the synagogue was well done as were the inferences established by the changing presence of relatives and pets. Your final two sentences struck me with a special, personal significance for I too had to "let go of a home" after my parents were deceased. The metaphor of the dry and drooping Christmas tree struck particularly close to home as a symbol of departed times existing now only in memory.

Nicely done! Thank you for sharing.