Banana Bread

The changing of the seasons.

It’s a small house, 100 ft. by 20, connected on both sides in an over-populated area in the borough of Queens, New York. Most houses in this neighborhood have trimmed, attractive landscaping. The flora neatly arrayed alongside stairs, ornate iron work, stone masonry, or pavers welcoming the mailman, Fed-Ex worker, Amazon delivery person, etc.. Most days the noise is annoyingly repetitive—construction drilling, leaf blowing, airplanes flying overhead, and Patty, the neighborhood screamer whose “A-A, A-AS, YEA, YEAS, EEEYYYAAAHHH, EEEYYYAAAHHH, EEEYYYAAAHHHS,’’ echo incessantly down the community driveway, then stop for a moment. You breathe a sigh of relief, and then, like a car alarm whose owner is not home, the screams immediately start up again seemingly louder and louder.

It’s 7 pm. The sun is setting on the chilly descending darkness. Rosalie decides that it’s time to decorate for the coming autumn season. She thinks she can get out the materials this evening to get an early start in the morning. She walks up to the second floor, using the banister for an extra boost on a couple of steps. She begins her search in the spare room: her daughter’s old room, laden with remnants of her childhood. There are stacked green bins in the corner that she laboriously takes down and opens, one by one. As she peers inside, she finds old toys, photo albums, food trays, dish sets—everything except autumn decorations. She restacks the bins which seem heavier than before and descends the carpeted stairs to search through the cramped hall closet on the house’s main floor. “Where did I put them last year?” she complains to herself. She tramps through the living room/kitchen area then down the polyurethaned stairs that lead to the basement, her knees creaking irritatingly. Beneath the staircase (in a space bearing a resemblance to Harry Potter’s cupboard under the stairs) are about eight blue bins neatly stacked. Rosalie pulls out each one, looks inside at Christmas decorations, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figurines, American Girl dolls and accessories. “I can’t believe this! Where the hell are they? I know I didn’t throw them away. Someone must have taken them or moved them or something!” Her hands ache as she returns each bin to its home. The basement smells dusty. Its mustiness causes her to pause and with this pause comes a wave of memory and grief.

She is transported to another house. This one in a Syracuse suburb. The houses in this neighborhood are all detached with large front lawns and spacious back yards. Rosalie looks out the sliding door that leads to the outdoor deck as she stirs the chicken soup on the stove. She hears her young daughter’s footsteps coming from an upstairs room: the Holly Hobbie Room, a room decorated from floor to ceiling with Holly Hobbie-themed things. Curtains, bedspread, rocking chair, dolls, figurines—the room was packed with items all branded with the character. Rosalie hears her sister Josette moving in the next room. She walks into what used to be the dining room. Now it houses a hospital bed, a portable toilet, a walker, and a side table stacked with towels, hand sanitizer, rubber gloves, syringes, a thermometer, and other medical supplies. Josette asks, “What kind of decorations are there around the house?” Puzzled, Rosalie looks at her sister’s sunken, cancer-ridden body shrinking into the white sheets of the hospital bed. Josette says, “It’s autumn, I usually decorate the house at this time of year.”

Holly Hobbie

Rosalie rushes down the basement stairs and stares at the 20 feet of folding tables which hold an array of seasonal decorations individually wrapped neatly in clear plastic. Christmas wreaths, a Happy New Year door clock, turkeys, pilgrim hats, pumpkins, sunflowers, snowmen, cornucopias, lilies—chronologically arranged along the tables like a Hallmark calendar. As Rosalie looks at the display, the task seems daunting. She had hastily grabbed a couple of Uncle Sam hats, USA flags, and liberty bells on her way down. She needs to replace those and go collect lawn ornaments commemorating the 4th of July. Tears roll down her cheeks as she looks at the empty spaces next to the sunflowers, lilies, and other summer decor that never made it out of the basement that year.

Rosalie’s face is wet as she bends down to restock the bins under the stairs. One small sob escapes her clenched jaws as she wipes her face with her throbbing hands and replaces each bin. Out the back door she goes. The aluminum shed that stands about 2 feet from the back door is the next area to search. She looks tiredly at the slanted red door held sort of closed with a hook and eye latch. As she peers through one of the gaps between the ten three-inch pieces of silver duct tape that were put there painstakingly in the hopes of holding the door closed, she gives up. She can’t bear the thought of sorting through the disorganized pile of “stuff” in her sights. As she treads back up the stairs, she looks at the ripened bananas sitting on her window sill. She opens the recipe box on her kitchen counter. The bones of her fingers crack as she rifles through the mostly alphabetized recipe cards until she finds what she’s looking for.

Let’s start a dialogue. Comment your own anecdotes, recipes, or any other thoughts that this piece may have sparked.

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