They were young; they were old; they were of yesterday and of yesteryears far gone. They were indeed the living and breathing subjects of those portraits upon the wall. They talked, they laughed, they shared the very breaths of our present moments. But how could this be?
My eyes pleaded with my grandfather's eyes for an explanation. it would come, but not yet. We had miles and miles of memories to restore to life, the memories that had first brought the Legacy to grandfather and now, in this confluence of all the generations, was brought together in my mile of history.
There were memories of ancient farms in ancient lands, of desperate dreams making passage on crowded ships, of empty pockets and empty fields, made full through the hard work of hope, of bring Providence to life. There were memories of young lives barely lived and lives lived far too long. There were memories of tears and laughter, mingled in the midst of memories of love and loss. There were memories of dreams pursued and dreams regrettully left untried. There were memories of unbelievable good fortune and unbearable tragedy, all survived. There were memories of prayers offered, prayers fulfilled, and prayers denied. There were memories of forgotten memories and the memories of now remembered dreams.
We drank Earl Grey tea and had shortbread cookies. And then they disappeared as they were waving good-bye from the porch as we walked on down the drive.
And the rockers began to rock in the rising breeze that followed us.