The Life We Once Knew

Let It Be

The house was familiar, and yet, so unfamiliar I could hardly recognize it. The photographs on the wall weren't quite clear enough to make out, but the warmth was. Only recently has my childhood home started to regain its old warmth, but even that was nothing like it was when Mum was alive. The house I stood in had a warmth I had almost forgotten about. It was the warmth that only existed when my mother was around.

Light shone in from the windows, but it didn't move. Nothing in the house moved. It was as if time had stopped all together. There was no wind, no fans, not even the rumble of a furnace. As I walked deeper into the house, I noticed exactly how still everything was.

Four people sat in the living room; a father and three kids. Jim McCartney sat in his favorite armchair smoking his favorite pipe and reading the newspaper, just like he always did. He looked so much younger. I could barely remember a day when he didn't have gray hair. Then, he had a hint of a smile tugging as his small lips, distorting the wisps of hair he had growing under his nose. That smile vanished after Mum died, and only recently has it begun to return. 

The three kids were sitting on the floor playing with a wooden train set. The oldest McCartney child had the engine. He held it high, keeping it away from his crying siblings. Paul smirked as his two much shorter siblings clawed at his shirt.

I looked to be in mid-jump, doing my best to jerk the engine from Paul. Mike was pulling on Paul's shirt, trying to pull his arms down to grab the engine. Neither of us were succeeding.

That was one of my earliest memories. I was barely five at the time. It was one of the few times where Dad was actually home with us, and one of the fewer times where he was actually smiling at us. 

The entire scene was frozen. My feet were hovering above the ground while Paul's smirk was frozen across his lips. Mike was permanently in a state of tears while Dad's pipe was locked between his teeth. None of us moved.

A sound came from the kitchen. It sounded like a kettle singing, telling the world the tea was done. I spun on my heel and began to slowly walk in that direction. Only one person would be making tea this early in the morning.

Mary McCartney stood in the kitchen tending to her favorite tea kettle. Steam poured out of the spout, swirling in the air like a cyclone coming to take us to Oz. She was exactly like I remembered her. Her floral dress hung under a stained apron, one which she called her lucky apron because everything she ever made while wearing it never burned. She never wore shoes in the house, instead choosing to shuffle around in pink socks with itchy lace at the top. Her hair, which she had passed down to Paul and me, was short and curled with the curlers she used every night. One forgotten curler still hung at the back of her head. She had a pen behind her ear. Standing in front of me was the mother I grew up with.

"Mum?" I whispered.

She turned around and smiled at me. I thought I would never see that smile again. It felt like years since I'd seen that smile, and yet, just yesterday. She opened her arms for a hug. Without hesitation, I rushed to bury myself in her chest.

"Hello, my dear," she said, "My, how you've grown."

Real tears were falling down my face. They were warm and salty but I couldn't feel them, nor could I smell them. As they traced my lips and found their way to my tongue, I couldn't taste them.

"Mum! I've missed you so much," I cried.

She ran her hand through my hair, "And I have missed you."

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard you needed me," she pulled me away to cup my cheeks and look into my eyes, "So, I came."