ESSAY-Nov/Dec 2009

by Rebecca Falzano

“Man is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness from which he emerges and the infinity in which he is engulfed.” -Blaise Pascal

A feeling of familiarity has descended—vague déjà vu. I have been here before. This month is familiar, for the first time in twelve of them. It was exactly a year ago that I gave in to Maine and moved here. After months of everything being new, seasons are starting to repeat. All the firsts are fading to seconds. Soon they will fade into thirds and sixths and tenths.

I met Portland on a beautiful November day. The sun set early, but was bright until the end. All the colors were saturated—the red of trees, the green of grass, the blue of sky and ocean. Crispy yellow leaves speckled the cobblestone and the air was cold but not biting, yet.

For the first time, I know what happens next here and what it will look like. In a few days, the white will come. The trees will be drained of all color, and walking the dog will become a winter sport. Despite longing for my first Maine summer, having this time of year back is special. This is when I first explored Portland, wondered whether I could ever live on that hill, in that house, near that water; if I might ever spend my days working inside that brick, on that street, near that park. When it became real, I named it home.

As the holidays approach, home becomes a different place temporarily—a place filled with family and memories.

When I was little, we always celebrated Christmas Eve twice. My parents grew up on adjacent streets, so that meant starting the night off at my mother’s parents, taking the five-second journey one street over, and finishing at my father’s parents. At both stops was a feast followed by presents. The nativity scene sat stoic and serene compared to the fuss that was always going on in the kitchen—the buzz of the electric knife competing with the whirr of the mixers and the clamoring of plates and glasses above the sound of carols on the old stereo. My cousins and I would disappear during the commotion to play hide-and-seek upstairs. It would be dark up there, with only the glow of candlelight in windows.

One Christmas Eve, we discovered infinity. Three mirrors above the bathroom sink hung at right angles from one another, so that when you looked into one and angled it ever so slightly, you could see not only the reflection of the others, but the reflection of those reflections, and so on and so on—like peering into an endless tunnel of mirrors. My little brother couldn’t look; he said infinity gave him a stomachache. We stood there for several minutes awestruck, until we were called downstairs to eat ham and mashed potatoes.

Ever since that Christmas, whenever I was in that room, I had to stop to look at the mirrors. They simultaneously scared and intrigued me, like looking at a ghost. I couldn’t comprehend infinity then, and what I know of it now is limited: Life cycles. Seasons repeat. Each year, the leaves will drop and the snow will come.