Regret? No, Gratitude

I'm a creature of nostalgia, I admit. Cherishing the past, wrapping its memories round me like a comfortable quilt, is a part of my character that informs almost everything I do: writing poetry, journaling, analyzing the present. I have never been a planner of my own future, a weakness in some people's eyes, I suppose; but I've always been one to take life a day at a time and confine my worrying to what's on my plate at the moment. Right now, I can't really think beyond simply being here for my mother and her needs. Her grief for my father is still deep, though she seldom speaks of it, and I know my company affords her some comfort - that, and baking up batches of cookies and one cake after another.

Many of my dreams take place in the apartment I had in Houston, in the Allen House. In all these dreams, I return there after some absence to find the place either in a shambles, or broken into by burglars who have left the place nearly empty. I don't need Jung to tell me the significance of these dreams, nor do I need him to tell me what prompted me to write the poem "Regret":

     I've lost the key to every house I've owned,
     but I recall the way to all of them
     as though the multi-layered years between us
     never were.  I still could navigate
     around the furnishings with eyes shut tight
     and not disturb a thing.  Although the keys
     are lost to me, like all my schoolgirl clothes,
     the sounds of every house are still as clear
     as bubbling laughter from a baby's lips,
     and all their scents still linger on the threads
     of tattered memories.  The houses stand
     as if in wait for me, but I must stay
     forever on the outside looking in.

I often think I should change the title of that poem, because it isn't so much regret I harbor for the past, but a grateful affection that helps me deal with the present. Though I sometimes feel like a slightly dowdy, genteel spinster penning memories on pages that will inevitably yellow and turn to dust, I can be happy in the knowledge that I've made good use of my life and my gifts. And every night when I kiss my mother and wish her a good sleep, I can be happy knowing I am of some use to her.

["Regret" was first published in WestWard Quarterly]

Note from the author: After the writing of this post and the publication of the poem, I officially changed the name of the poem to "Retrospect."