I must have knocked for a good four or five minutes. First the basement door. Then the front door. She was watching TV but I couldn’t get her attention. No doorbell either. Finally I walked to the back door praying she didn’t have a large dog chained on the back deck. I knocked again. She and her poodle startled and began walking to the door wearily. In that moment, I wondered how many poor souls had been bludgeoned or shot to death because of Carrie Underwood’s song, “The House That Built Me.” I hoped she didn’t have a gun.
Lights came on and the door opened. I explained that my dad had built the house and my handprint was on the concrete in the driveway. I apologized profusely. It was 8:30 on a Sunday night in the country on a dead-end street. I asked if it was ok if I tried to find my handprint and she smiled and said sure before closing the door.
Just an hour before I had been working on a project when the thought popped into my head to drive out to the first house I lived in. I hadn’t been back since I was 5. I don’t remember much about that house but what I do remember was good. This is the only part of my life without bad memories.
Mom and I would take long walks in the woods and pick flowers. I learned to walk in the hallway between the bedrooms. I covered the refrigerator with paint and pictures. On sunny days, Mom and I would walk several miles to the local market to get a special treat: an Oatmeal Cream Pie. I learned to fish at the end of the street in a shallow area in the creek. And somewhere at the end of the driveway, my little handprint was set in concrete.
Back down on the bridge over the creek, I parked, turned my high-beams on, and got to work. I concentrated on the one corner where I thought I remembered the handprint should be. I didn’t bring a broom so I was on my hands and knees, brushing nearly 30 years of dirt, moss, and gravel off the bridge, hoping to uncover a little treasure before being eaten by coyotes or copperheads.
One corner was cleared. Nothing. Maybe it was on the other side. A second corner was cleared. Still nothing. I didn’t have a shovel so I had no way to remove the dirt and gravel at the foot of the bridge. Twenty minutes later, I’m covered in dust, hands sore from scraping the concrete, and still no handprint. Half of the bridge was now cleared.
I stood up disappointed. On the drive here, I was excited. Excited to see my little toddler handprint and maybe even my name and the year. Now, as I walked back to the car, I knew I’d never find it. It’s strange enough to randomly ask someone if I can camp out on their driveway but there’s no way I’m coming back again with shovels and a broom. That was my one shot.
I slowly backed out on to the road and stared at the house. It was a little bigger than I remember. And sat at a slightly different angle than I remember. But it was definitely the same house. Same bridge. Same creek. Same hillside. I was far from being the same little girl.
In the 20-something years since living there, life happened. And it happened in the abusive and neglectful way that happens all too frequently. Now at 31, I’m still reeling from the hit and trying to figure out how to make sense of it all. How to move forward gracefully, if there is such a thing.
Funny that the thought of finding my handprint drove me to the country late at night, an hour away from my house. And that I can’t find my handprint hits home like I’ve been punched. I’ve always been searching for it. Always been missing my identity but all too eager to accept someone else’s idea of what they thought I should be.
I just wanted to start over. I just wanted to retrace the little finger marks. I wanted to place my hand over the memory of when life was completely good like it could magically fix things. Fix me. I know it’s still there, covered by years of dirt and debris. But for me, it’s gone.
As I hit the main road out, I turned on the radio to JJ Heller’s song “What Love Really Means.” And I lost it.
“And I’ve watched you suffer all of your life.
And now that you’re listening I’ll, I’ll tell you that I…
I will love you for you.
Not for what you have done or what you will become.
I will love you for you.
I will give you the love, the love that you never knew.”
My hands were throbbing. My eyes stung from hot tears. And then I remembered it was Palm Sunday, the day that celebrates Jesus’ triumphal and victorious entry into Jerusalem. I didn’t feel in any way victorious. If anything, I felt even more defeated and confused.
Why bring me out here at night to dig around in the dirt looking for a part of my past I’ll never get back? Why pierce me with the lyrical confession that you watched me suffer all my life? I know you did, God. And you didn’t do anything. Remember? What kind of love is that?
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, fingers and palms tender to the touch. Then the thoughts came: Maybe the past is better left uncovered. Maybe he brought me all the way out here to show me that the identity I had is gone and buried forever, under years of dirt and debris. Maybe all the digging I’ve been doing was necessary to remove the years of calluses.
Back home, I threw my dusty clothes in the wash and went to the sink. Cold water ran over my smooth hands, still pink in places from the work. Pink like a little kid’s hands, like my hands when I was eager to learn and play and discover. When I was trusting. And when I lived with a heart wide open.
