Haunted by Memory

The Lie

I sat on the couch in the living room, fingers chattering away on my keyboard. Just half an hour left in my daily writing exercise. I paused, grasping for words, as so often happens. And, in the quiet of the pause -- I heard a voice.

I cocked my head, thinking it was Aunt Sharon. I'd kind of assumed she had lain down for a nap, but . . . no. Definitely not her voice. It was soft, cooing, slightly silly. I stood and walked into the office. No one there.

I could still hear the voice, though, and babyish laughter, like the echoes of a young mother teasing her infant. But I couldn't make out specific words. Then the sounds faded away. Nothing. I rubbed my ears, thoroughly shaken, and returned to my nest on the couch.

Just as I sat, I was jerked to my feet again -- more voices came, now from the kitchen. Although I still couldn't make out words, I knew as I drew closer that it was a young mother talking to her elementary-aged son. But all sounds of mother and son faded as I reached the kitchen, and then more sounds kicked up, calling from the garage.

I went out, looked at the disused skateboards hung on the wall. A barrel of deflated soccer-balls sat underneath them, abandoned for years. This time, in the garage, I heard the sound of a car purring to life, and a mother -- an older version of the same mother, I thought -- saying something about college. She sounded tearful.

I went back to my couch. I started to write. And half an hour later, as my aunt greeted me after her nap, I placed the voice. The voice of a mother with grown children.

The Truth

While I was sitting on the couch today, I really did hear the voices of a young mother and her infant. It was terrifying, especially since I'd thought I was alone in the house. Every time I tried to listen, the voices would fade. But it wasn't any specter of memory waiting for me in the office -- it was my aunt, on facebook, watching videos of a friend playing with her new baby.

But have you ever noticed how a home seems haunted by memories? I think it's more powerful when you return to a place after years away. The bathroom with the red splotch where your brother threw up strawberries on the wall. The hallway where you wrestled with your brother, and he bit you. The closet where you hid for hours to scare your sister.

I find it especially potent when I return to my old home in Nigeria. Any stories or memories that you'd care to share in the comments?