Notes from Maine - 2022/03/27
Lo siento.
In my opinion, this is a really beautiful expression in Spanish. If you accidentally bump someone on the street, you might say discúlpame (excuse me) or perdóname (pardon me). If you want to express sympathy, you have the expression lo siento.
A literal translation of lo siento is, “I feel it.”
To me, this cuts right to the heart. I see your pain and I feel it too. There’s no way to remove the hurt from from both of us, so for now the only comfort I can give you is to say that I’m right there with you.
This was going through my head yesterday. A bunch of us were helping our friend clean out his mother’s house. She recently moved to an assisted living facility, leaving behind a house full of dusty memories. This is the house where our friend grew up. It’s the house his mother returned to after her husband of forty-five years was laid to rest. Their presence was etched into the walls and the carpets. We uncovered treasures, trash, and secrets as we filled a dumpster with the irredeemable. Quick decisions were made about what should be kept and tossed.
Our friend and his sister, shedding this old clothing for the last time, seemed fine with the process.
When I went through my grandmother’s house for the last time, I was a mess. I always pictured having that house and property forever. Walking through those rooms, I was always able to conjure memories of the best times my family had to offer. When we had to tour through there one final time, looting furniture and heirlooms so they wouldn’t be sold to the junk dealers, it felt like cutting off a pinky finger—not something I need, but something I would always miss. In my dreams, I still inhabit that place. My books often include it as a setting.
Lo siento.
There’s no reason to be sentimental about places and objects. They’re just things—no substitute for the friends and family we associate them with. When I drive by my grandparents’ house now, I hardly recognize the place. I haven’t lived there in twenty years, and we’ve both moved on. The barn is different, with its new paint. The roof is red metal now. Even if I could, I have no desire to return there. Whatever hold that house had over me is long gone except in my dreams.
At my friends house, we had limited dumpster space so some of the pressboard cabinets had to be smashed. I enjoyed that. It was easier to smash things than gently relegate them to the trash. Neighbors drifted by, picking through the free items we left at the curb. I’m currently sitting at a rickety table that I got second hand. I wonder if anyone out there has a fond memories of sitting at this table, sharing breakfast with their spouse.
It was a relief to return home after helping gut my friend’s house. This is where I belong.
Mom is talking to Albert in the other room. She just finished cleaning my nephew’s room in anticipation of his visit. Mom will move from the big room to Dad’s room (we still call the small room Dad’s room even though he will never visit again). My sister will take the big room and we’ll have a week of vacation together. This house is full of memories. Most everyone I know has stayed here at least once.
I’ll never have to clean this place out. Someone else can sort through the treasures and trash. I’ll leave a few secrets behind as well.
