is this to me or to Kevin? So hard to tell sometimes. Well, if it's to me, i'll say that these memories of my mom are always with me, but I try not to go back to my childhood too much.
That's very affecting, Mary. The repetition expresses the dismay of the speaker and the happy memories at the end accentuate the speaker's pain. Thank you.
I really love this piece. There is a strength in the narrator’s voice and a powerful emotional music throughout. I can’t imagine this story written any other way.
I remember being too young to smoke, or drink, the petrified cumulus clouds of August, the oppressive green leaves of middle Connecticut, it's heat and humidity. A glass of lemonade?
I remember lying under a tree in Hyde Park with a girl who worked on car engines.
Lighting the fire behind the neighbor's garage, running home and climbing into my toy box, I remember that.
And I remember stealing things. Not a long or vary valuable list, but..
And just now remember hiding poems in my bookcase, written after reading Sartre. Still clueless, I remember trying to parse existentialism, but my mother found the poems anyway.
Yes, I remember her a nosy sort.
I remember how impossible living to the age I am now would be. Now I am starting to forget about that, but that's ok because new brain cells are still growing and making new connections, which is something astonishing.
So when a friend forgets they've told you the same story ten times it's ok because you don't remember them and it's like hearing it the first time all over again.
I remember I forget things. And forget to remember things.
Remembering and forgetting take place in close proximity in our brains. Maybe even the same place !
Sometimes I remember things I never knew in the first place, but don't remember an example right now.
People say Oh i've told you this before, and I say, I won't remember and if it's funny, I'll laugh all over again! Love your piece here, Tod. A glass of lemonade? Under a tree with the girl who worked on car engines. So potent, all of this.
It's a strange place, but it was wonderful when I lived there and raised my kids. I called it paradise back then. When i left, I realized i'd been living in a strange, isolated bubble. It's gotten so wealthy now, I can't afford to move back. But I miss those days of my life with small kids and our house on the water. Kayaks, trails, bonfires, great friends, my wood stove....
I like the shift from stealing things to hiding poems. From a slightly shameful thing to a thing that should not be embarrassing but somehow is. I stole fruit pies at the A&P, but never had a Sartre chaser.
We built go carts and mini bikes and needed tools and stuff and rode our bikes 10 miles across the Meadows to Myrtle Mills, an old textile mill turned into a low end department store in the '50's. We took mostly tools, but then got scared on the way home and threw everything in the river. I never had much career as a thief, though contemplated it.
My grandfather built me a toy box with decals of cowboys and Indians on it. I kept it around for quite a long time into my 60's and now I don' t remember what happened to it.
My grandfather built the one us three boys had. No cowboys or indians on it, plenty in it. I think it got destroyed after I went to college. One of my younger brothers was really into “wrastling”.
I remember the toy box a place where stuff went that almost never got used and didn't have another place to go. Like a closet, perhaps. Strange, when you think about it, toy box.
Once upon a time Baltimore had a strip club called the Toy Box. Not to be confused with a boutique toy store called the Toy Attic, which was only a dozen blocks away.
Mary, something tells me that we have hit pay dirt with the I remember exercise. I hope we’re not done with it. It has created such amazing work that I’d love to see us work with it again and again. I particularly love how folks are giving themselves permission to both remember and not remember and then make up things that maybe they might’ve remembered if they could remember. Wow.
It really is such a great exercise. I'll definitely repeat it at some point. (If anyone says, hey, we did this one already, I'll just blame you....) Another one that seemed to spark a lot of depth and remembering was the "I'm sorry" one a while back.
Now one could argue that in an advanced tech scenario, wireless data transfer would be available, and I'd argue yes, but, the wired connection would have higher fidelity.
I remember us lying by the river on the grass. I remember that we were looking up at the stars. I remember the caress of your breath in my hair. I remember your whisper that we would never part. I remember how I then closed my eyes.
I remember you said you had found a new job. I remember you said you had to move to New York. I remember you said you would keep in touch. I remember the foolish hitch in my breath.
I remember the one time you came back to visit. I remember wondering why you wore all black. I still remember that new haircut of yours.
I remember lying by the river on the grass, after I heard of your Hamptons wedding. I remember I was looking up at the stars.
Very nice. I don't feel the narrator is exactly sad, I though maybe melancholy but I looked that up and that's not it either. Wistful maybe? It's a memory of sadness, but in an accepting sort of way...
I like the way time progresses in this one, heartbreaking at first, but then the wedding, it seems the narrator is figuring something out, be is going to be ok.
I remember the brown sunsets in Los Angeles, the gasoline rainbows in puddles after a storm.
I remember forcing my doll (a cheaper version of Barbie, tho still big boobs tiny waist and no hips) to have sex with Gumby.
I remember taking Wonder Bread, crushing the dough into tiny hard balls, and putting them in a cup of soda, why? I have no idea.
I remember pop rocks.
I remember pulling out a filling in a back tooth on an Abba Zabba bar.
I remember my fourth grade BFF Nancy Ruiz pulled her eyelashes and brows out, her stubby fingers grasping, then careful looking to see how many she got. I was grossed out at first, but then I started doing it, too.
I remember asking Nancy where her mother was, and she said, “she threw us away, like trash.” She meant her and her little brother, too. I said, “what?” We’d been eating Pop-Tarts, I’d burned my tongue on the filling. “She went back to the Philippines without us.”
I remember looking in the mirror and realizing the habit I picked up from Nancy made my lashes sparse, my brows had holes where hairs should be.
I remember when I first learned the word for hair pulling, Trichotillomania, and how I had a hard time spelling it, or even pronouncing it. Trichotillomania. I remember that even just a second ago, before posting this, I had to look it up to make sure I spelled it right.
These memories. So poignant. i know all about the hair pulling thing. "she threw us away." There is so much here, starting with the perfect image of the brown sunsets.
Very rich with sad and funny memories, Sea. And I love the ending playing with the I remember theme and the new word (new to me too!). I used to make balls of bread crust to eat not out of necessity just for something different - never tried putting them in soda, so I missed a trick there!
I remember being alone, in a primitive campsite just a quarter mile from the headwaters of the Potomac. Alone with a bag of mushrooms and enough weed to stone a large buffalo.
I remember thinking how this solitude felt comfortable, needed in a spiritual manner. Thinking about how my life, to that point, was a shit show of discombobulated attempts at fame. Playing baritone sax, emulating Dubie’s poetry, and now chasing Jacques Pépin’s culinary stature.
I remember eating the first couple mushrooms, the wind shaking music from the trees. Percussion provided by the headwaters’ constant bouncing from rock to rock.
I remember how wide my eyes felt, as if an aperture had been loosened to allow more filtered sun directly into my conscious. Daytime fireflies buzzing in and out of this consciousness.
I remember a beaver dropping by to ensure my fire pit would not be an issue. Baking a PB&J in a pie iron — best PB&J ever!
I remember how relaxed I felt coming back down from the mushrooms. How I worried that if I were to move any muscles my tranquility would shatter.
I remember my first prep task after vacation was to clean a flat of soft shell crabs.
I remember gathering my shears and pairing knife to perform this task.
I remember the sound of the summers of my early childhood for especially two things: the sound of the cicadas, and the sound of the ice cream truck approaching our street.
I remember the cicadas as being happiest when it was sweltering, and the sound they made was like the shaking of tambourines.
The truck, I remember, had a row of bells across the top of the windshield. I remember that sometimes I heard both sounds at the same time and it was beautiful to me.
I remember the emotion of the moment when we kids heard the truck coming. I remember we would stop whatever we were doing and run.
The Good Humor music started playing. For us, it was not the trigger for joy but hysterical panic that the truck would cross the boulevard where we were not allowed to go, ruining our chances for an afternoon treat.
“STOP!” we shrieked as we ran.
I remember every part of the Marino ices you ate with a wooden spoon. I remember my favorite flavor was cola. I remember you had to use the spoon to pry it away from the sides and then flip the ice over. I remember that was payload: the frozen, sticky sugar that collected at the bottom of the cup. I remember I would suck on the spoon long after I’d finished it because the wood tasted good, too.
This brought back memories for me. Yes, the shaking like tambourines sound. And am I remember correctly--that suddenly the noise would stop? And then start up again?
This is absolutely true - the ice cream man who has been working in in our neighborhood for the last 10 or 15 years has his name painted on his truck. His name: "Scary Larry." I don't know which puzzles me more, the fact that there are still ice cream trucks or the name.
This is supposed to be a major cicada summer. Lots of new "I remembers" being made, maybe. My favorite Marino was lemon. Thanks for reminding me of flipping it over for that intense payload. MMMMM.
We lived outside of town and our local ice cream man was this old dude in a repainted yellow and red panel truck, hand scooping ice cream under conditions of questionable sanitation. Today we would call the whole thing "sketchy".
I remember that day, between Christmas and New Years. A rare day for Portland, when the streets were covered with a half foot of snow.
I remember us walking the dog, along the side of Central Catholic High. The sidewalk was shoveled clear, and when we came to the end, it turned towards the front of the school. I remembered we turned instead of going straight, over the small snowbank created by the pushed snow and out into the street. We followed the dog along the shoveled path towards the entrance of the school.
I remember a car driving past us as we turned, turning the same way, moving slowly on the icy road. I don’t remember who was driving, that it was our neighbor you didn’t like and his six-year-old son.
I remember not knowing why you were upset, as we walked the few blocks home.
I remember you insisting he almost hit us with his large, old SUV, that if we hadn’t turned suddenly, that if we had stepped out into the street, he could have hit us. You said he came within foot or two of us, almost hitting us, but I did not remember this at all.
I remember how after a couple hours we walked back to the intersection where it happened, before the snow begun to melt. I remember pointing out the distance between any tire tracks and our footsteps was at least eight feet away.
I remember trying to convince you the car couldn’t have come that close to us. I remember you accused me of taking the neighbor’s side, denying an ugly truth to in my desire to avoid problems. I remember later how you claimed I was never really on your side. I remember thinking I don’t love enough to simply ignore the truth in front of me, as we carried on the next three days, you reliving that terrible moment again and again, and me, not really believing it was true. I remember the car not going fast, no rev of engine on the quiet Sunday morning. And why would he try to hit us with his kid in the passenger seat?
I remember how this event slowly broke apart our already fragile marriage, my unwillingness to believe something I knew was not true. I could not do that for you.
Whoa. I'm thinking kids here, so when I get to marriage at the end, I'm brought up short! And then I re-read all over again. Which is every writer's dream..
I remember believing that babies were delivered on the beak of a stork. I was ten years old. So, imagine my surprise when after the film 'Splash' my best friend told me it wasn't so. She even showed me (on Barbie and Ken) how the thing was done. I remember my utter disgust. I remember my shock when my mother confirmed that it was true. Storks apparently had nothing to do with babies. Ugly penises did. And hairy vaginas. As I learned shortly afterwards from a sex book that my mother had bought me, trying to compensate for the talk she had failed to have with me on the subject. She was always so busy. I remember my outrage. If this is how it's done I have no interest in having babies, I remember telling myself. I liked the idea of a stork so much better. It seemed simpler, and clean. I remember thinking, who came up with this lie and why? I wanted to write to him/ her a letter of complaint: you made me look like a fool, thank you very much. But then I figured that ugly penises and hairy vaginas didn't look so good on a 'Congratulation for your baby!' card. Storks were better. One day everybody will learn the ugly truth. I'm not the one who is going to tell them.
hahahaha! "I'm not the one who is going to tell them." My mom was always straight up, so I'm guessing I knew very early. Only problem was that I didn't know what a vagina was. So even though I didn't believe in the stork, I was very confused for a long time!
Brilliant! I liked the idea of a stork so much better! Who wouldn't? My daughter and her best friend tried the Barbie demonstration. When her friend's mother found out, she was furious with my daughter for corrupting hers. Gotta tell ya honey, your daughter was leading the show!
I knew right away this would be a bit tough, as I write memoir and have been trying to extend beyond that. I may post the more complete version on my own substack.
= = = = =
I remember a perfect childhood, a long stretch of innocence filtering like sunshine through the trees and making sparkling geometric patterns on the bottom of the swimming pool.
I remember a long string of ghosts that I didn’t know was death until I knew.
. . .
I remember Lonnie, the 15-year-old only son who had 4 sisters in my second mom’s house, our neighbors, who would drag mattresses from the house and throw us on them to play war and wrap our arms with sheets and douse them with ketchup, who had a single kidney and his mom worried about him playing football that he loved so much, how he made a firework out of a CO2 cannister from his father’s bullet making equipment, while his parents were on vacation. Donnie knocked on my door and said “did you hear the ambulance? Lonnie lit a firework and it exploded and hit him in his chest, it was so cool.”
I remember thinking that wasn’t cool and yelling for my mom and dad!
I remember them looking through the neighbor’s papers frantically, trying to find anything with a car license plate on it.
I remember hearing the stories about Audrey, the nurse, who calmly came out and lifted Lonnie’s eyelids and saw his eyes twitch and screamed in that blood curdling voice of hers to “call an ambulance.”
And I remember sitting at the dining table with my sister when she told me that Lonnie wasn’t coming back.
I remember I was seven.
I remember it was a week before Carol and Jack would come home to a dead son, but I don’t remember who told them.
I remember my mom lightly pushing my back to go give Carol a big hug, not quite getting why everyone was so sad.
I remember seeing Lonnie in his coffin, in his football jersey and the long line of cars with their lights on driving slowly on the street to the cemetery by the Mission.
I remember riding in Carol's station wagon to the beach and interviewing Lynnette and Laurie, my hand held like a microphone, about what it felt like to lose a brother, and they said “Mom, why is he acting so weird?” and she said it was my way of dealing with things.
I remember an innocent childhood pervaded by the smell of death where no one in my own family died. Until now, when that’s all I can remember.
Oh. I can barely breathe. In fact, I don't think I breathed out at all while reading this one. So well done, Mark. The beating rhythm as things descend, as it gets harder and harder to read. And then that last line--a glimmer of something there after all of the darkness.
I remember the smell of the carpet on the floor of my bedroom.
I remember lying there and watching the popcorn ceiling make shapes.
I remember when my bedroom was mine, and so, the rest of the house was not mine.
I remember listening mostly to three records, according to what I had found at the Goodwill: Procol Harum’s A Salty Dog and the Broadway cast recording of Hair and The Velvet Underground’s not very famous VU.
I remember feeling that I was not doing it quite right.
I remember feeling that it was the most familiar thing to be doing it wrong, as if I were trying to slump soft material into a different shape, imitating something I vaguely recalled, always making do with the wrong tool for the job.
I remember discovering when anything could be found on Napster, if you waited enough hours for the little bar to fill up.
I remember learning that staying up late enough meant suffering the next morning, but also that the house would become quiet and would become mine.
I remember a strange noise outside that sounded like a man saying RICK.
I remember, for a long time after, thinking of this when I met anyone named Rick.
I remember hearing a creaking sound at night from the garage and convincing myself that something was really happening, and lifting a walnut chair over my head and standing next to the doorway for a long time.
I remember feeling my heartbeat without putting my hand to my chest.
I remember being horrified when an adult told me they didn’t really have many happy childhood memories.
Except, I remember not actually being horrified, but being almost judgmental. Disbelieving.
I remember lying in bed on my back, with a paperback balanced on my front, finding out that my heartbeat could make the text bump up and down.
I remember wondering how I had never noticed that before.
I remember wondering if I were very sick.
I remember being allowed to paint the walls any color I wanted, the years of deep purple, the years of terra cotta.
I remember clearing out that house one December, alone, making so many trips back and forth to the same hardware store and the same Goodwill.
I particularly like 'I remember wondering how I had never noticed that before.' There's always a first time, but why this particular first time and not yesterday? Could be about anything.
I remember trying out different patterns of waking and sleeping with my college roommate.
I remember working as an usher in the summer at Blossom Music Center to get into the concerts for free. I remember wearing a dress with hiking boots, which was weird then but today I see it all the time.
I remember lots of things Joe Brainard remembered even though I grew up in Ohio ten years later. I remember reading George Perec and Annie Ernaux being inspired by him, but my own memories are closer to his than to theirs.
I remember turning my bedroom into a darkroom and developing black and white photos while I listened to cassettes made by my brother. I remember him playing all the instruments and singing all the vocals, patiently recording one guitar after another.
I remember sitting on the floor at all night screenings of experimental films.
I remember browsing in bookstores that specialized in artists books.
I remember you waiting for me in front of the covered market and, as soon as I saw you, we were in each other’s arms.
I remember the cold drizzle as we walked arm in arm in Ventimiglia and you put your hand in my pocket to keep warm.
I remember cuddling on a park bench and thinking we were like Brassens’s Amoureux des bancs publics. I remember you asking me to read you a chapter from a Tale of Two Cities on your phone. I remember you showing me a picture of your girlfriend from way back, the one you were going to marry, and telling me how while you were away working on a cruise ship she discovered she had leukemia and how she died several months later.
I remember you smiling as you stuck your tongue out at me. I remember smiling back. I remember making black-and-white photos for you with my phone. I remember your sweet messages.
Funny I didn't see that before you pointed it out. A lot of those things don't exist anymore, at least not in my own life. Darkrooms and cassettes. I occasionally go to film screenings but not the kind where the audience stays for hours looking at films of all kinds and lengths. Our attention spans today are too short for that. Bookstores struggle to exist let alone bookstores specializing in artists books (in Paris we had several in the late 70s but they didn't last more than a year or two).
I remember – what exactly? The memories of my mother’s six-year half-hearted presence in my life are like old photos, drained of warmth.
I remember her screams the day she caught her finger in the car door, the shock, the blood and the leather finger stall she wore for some weeks afterwards.
I remember my screams at the sight of the dead fox draped over her shoulders as she set out to a party, its limp paws, its glass eyes fixed on me.
I remember her hand-stitching a fairy outfit for me to wear at a fancy dress party, a navy shift decorated with overlapping triangles of coloured felt. The scraps of felt lingered in our nursery long after her departure.
I remember the twist dress she brought me from London, a red woollen shift with a flounce at the knee, two pom-poms at the collar. She taught me how to do the twist.
I remember her teaching me French, from a book, Je Lis, Tu Lis.
I remember one morning on our summer holidays following my parents and their friends to the beach for a sunrise swim. Is it actual memory or a remembered photo that shows her pig-a-back on a man not Daddy?
I remember how the sea folded me into its turquoise embrace and I yielded, until Daddy pulled me free of the waves.
I remember the morning a bird flew in their bedroom window, how it frightened her, how it beat at the walls and ceiling, landing finally on her hatbox on top of the wardrobe. Daddy guided it to the window.
I remember collecting tiny cowrie shells on the seashore with her. She poured them into a glass jar to place on the corner of the bath. In another corner stood a jar filled with gaudy beads from broken necklaces. I have some of her costume jewellery now but I don’t wear it.
I remember standing at the door of the kitchen in our holiday rental watching her plunge a lobster, all agitated claws and feelers, into a pot of boiling water. I hear the claws scrabble on the saucepan lid, and the high whine that I took to be the creature’s death throes.
I remember the nights I stood at the end of Daddy's bed crying and saying ‘I miss Mummy’.
I remember that I said it even when I stopped meaning it.
This is amazing. All of it. This line really hit me: "Is it actual memory or a remembered photo that shows her pig-a-back on a man not Daddy?" But the whole piece really adds up to great effect.
I like how you have the big moment up front, that your mother's presence in your life was brief, and then all the details of those six years. Very moving, as is 'the sea folded me into its turquoise embrace and I yielded.' Mysterious, the power of the sea.
I love that book. This is such a beautiful exercise. I'm not very happy with what I wrote, but I gave it a try. There will be a lot of strange sentences or other faults, no doubt!
I remember reading in the diary my mother kept for me when I was a toddler, I remember that she wrote about that time I got hit by a car, and she sat down in the middle of the road and took me in her arms, crying.
I remember my mother screaming my name in the middle of the night, I remember running to her room and being caught by my uncle, saying it was ok, Mam was having a baby.
I remember my mother's thick black hair and her red lipstick, I remember standing in front of the window in the hallway at school, looking down on the playground where she was talking to other parents, thinking my mother was the most beautiful creature in the world.
I remember that my mother cried one day because I had started singing. She said I had stopped singing for a long time.
I remember being homesick at school camp, the teacher who drove me home, his silence and his hairy hands, I remember how my mother opened our front door when we arrived and how I fled into her arms.
I remember my mother sleeping over one night at the hospital where I was staying, I got out of bed in the middle of the night, sneaked into the hallway where they had put her bed and crept next to her, it was so cold but she was so warm.
I remember smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, looking out the window into the backyard, with all the curly ivy climbing up the dead tree like a child clinging to a mothers skirt, feeling her eyes on my back, there was so much anger in them.
I remember when they cut the tree down, the ivy laying around with nothing to hold on to.
I remember the day my mother left to get some groceries and never came back. She had quietly moved her things to a shed in her friend's garden, right before winter. I remember I was worried that she would be cold.
I remember thinking she would come home once it would start freezing, since there was no fireplace in the shed where she was living now. I remember being very naive about certain things, taking them for granted, I was so wrong.
I thought this was beautiful. I particularly loved, “I remember when they cut the tree down, the ivy laying around with nothing to hold on to.” I seemed symbolic of the whole story. And was a turning point, the coming lost. Lovely
The moment you've grown up enough to have a cigarette, reflecting on the vine like a child clinging to a mother's skirt, then her eyes so angry. Wonderful evocation of the moment a child pulls away from a parent.
I remember you with the iron poker, poking at something in the fireplace.
I remember you opening my bedroom door. Yelling, who burned my bathing suit.
I remember the men arriving and taking you away.
I remember the red thing floating in the glass of water when you picked it up and swirled it.
I remember you telling me to drink the water.
I remember the men arriving and taking you away.
I remember you up all night, studying handwriting, the Merck manual, old photos.
Oh, the things you did.
I remember almost breaking your finger.
I remember you dancing and dancing.
I remember you weeping and weeping.
I remember the men arriving and taking you away.
I remember the men arriving and taking you away.
I remember the men arriving and taking you away.
I remember driving together through Seattle, looking for the end of the rainbow and finding it.
I remember you laughing. You had the best laugh of anyone. I loved making you laugh.
This is a keeper. It has a wonderful shape.
Thanks, Sea. Writing this sort of ruined my day. I'm headed outside now to breathe a bit.
i had to lie down after finishing my prompt for today.
Yes. It's good to get away from it for a bit.
You must have been wrung out afterward.
is this to me or to Kevin? So hard to tell sometimes. Well, if it's to me, i'll say that these memories of my mom are always with me, but I try not to go back to my childhood too much.
It was to both I guess but I was commenting your post and your remark
That's very affecting, Mary. The repetition expresses the dismay of the speaker and the happy memories at the end accentuate the speaker's pain. Thank you.
Thanks so much, Aisling.
Oh Mary!
I have chills…
Sad Mary
Beautifully heartbreaking.
Wow. Powerful.
I really love this piece. There is a strength in the narrator’s voice and a powerful emotional music throughout. I can’t imagine this story written any other way.
Thank you so much, Vati.
Wow, Mary, stunning and beautiful.
Thank you, Patti.
So sad.
The repetition in this piece underscores the confusion and heartbreak.
iron poker, poking
perfect.
the weight of it and the movement, something that invokes the hands just seems to breathe life
Thanks, Niall. I wondered about that when i wrote it--should I repeat the word? And then felt that yes, it worked that way. So thank you for noticing!
yes, repetitions within repetitions within repetitions. Beautifully executed.
Thanks, Kevin.
I remember being too young to smoke, or drink, the petrified cumulus clouds of August, the oppressive green leaves of middle Connecticut, it's heat and humidity. A glass of lemonade?
I remember lying under a tree in Hyde Park with a girl who worked on car engines.
Lighting the fire behind the neighbor's garage, running home and climbing into my toy box, I remember that.
And I remember stealing things. Not a long or vary valuable list, but..
And just now remember hiding poems in my bookcase, written after reading Sartre. Still clueless, I remember trying to parse existentialism, but my mother found the poems anyway.
Yes, I remember her a nosy sort.
I remember how impossible living to the age I am now would be. Now I am starting to forget about that, but that's ok because new brain cells are still growing and making new connections, which is something astonishing.
So when a friend forgets they've told you the same story ten times it's ok because you don't remember them and it's like hearing it the first time all over again.
I remember I forget things. And forget to remember things.
Remembering and forgetting take place in close proximity in our brains. Maybe even the same place !
Sometimes I remember things I never knew in the first place, but don't remember an example right now.
People say Oh i've told you this before, and I say, I won't remember and if it's funny, I'll laugh all over again! Love your piece here, Tod. A glass of lemonade? Under a tree with the girl who worked on car engines. So potent, all of this.
thanks mg.
Your ending makes me think how memory is allusive, often not true, definitely not trustworthy.
fascinating isn't it
Love the humor in the last line. I love this prompt! It's brought out a musical quality in each.
Yes, the repetition just does that, automatically.
All of it is just so evocative and brilliant, but I especially loved these last lines:
I remember I forget things. And forget to remember things.
Remembering and forgetting take place in close proximity in our brains. Maybe even the same place !
Sometimes I remember things I never knew in the first place, but don't remember an example right now.
Love the truth, pain and humour in it!
thank you Iola
wonderful Tod ! I like the last part, beginning with the chiasma I remember I forget things... the whole piece builds up to it!
I didn't realize that until you said it :)
I love the random gathering of items that build a delightful picture and the funny ending!
Today, Are you still in middle Connecticut? I am! Avon.
Brinnon, Washington, now.
Raised in Farmington, but long gone from there. A brother still in Collinsville.
Oh, you are in Brinnon! I lived on Bainbridge for 20 years. And my parents had a place in Seabeck for a time.
My daughter and family live on BI. I'm there often, but don't feel I fit in.
It's a strange place, but it was wonderful when I lived there and raised my kids. I called it paradise back then. When i left, I realized i'd been living in a strange, isolated bubble. It's gotten so wealthy now, I can't afford to move back. But I miss those days of my life with small kids and our house on the water. Kayaks, trails, bonfires, great friends, my wood stove....
a bubble indeed.
a woman and her wood stove.
wood stoves have been part of my life forever. First thing I did on this boat install an old fisherman's wood stove for heat and cooking.
I like the shift from stealing things to hiding poems. From a slightly shameful thing to a thing that should not be embarrassing but somehow is. I stole fruit pies at the A&P, but never had a Sartre chaser.
Ha, well, you didn't have my mother.
We built go carts and mini bikes and needed tools and stuff and rode our bikes 10 miles across the Meadows to Myrtle Mills, an old textile mill turned into a low end department store in the '50's. We took mostly tools, but then got scared on the way home and threw everything in the river. I never had much career as a thief, though contemplated it.
were you a juvenile delinquent :)
No. you have to be caught to be a jd, and I was never caught. :)
I had forgotten about toy boxes, and hiding in them. I like the “starting to forget” part too.
My grandfather built me a toy box with decals of cowboys and Indians on it. I kept it around for quite a long time into my 60's and now I don' t remember what happened to it.
My grandfather built the one us three boys had. No cowboys or indians on it, plenty in it. I think it got destroyed after I went to college. One of my younger brothers was really into “wrastling”.
I remember the toy box a place where stuff went that almost never got used and didn't have another place to go. Like a closet, perhaps. Strange, when you think about it, toy box.
Once upon a time Baltimore had a strip club called the Toy Box. Not to be confused with a boutique toy store called the Toy Attic, which was only a dozen blocks away.
I remember sitting on the lawn in the sun. The grass was cool and a little damp.
I remember mom sitting down next to me. She had a little trouble getting comfortable.
I remember my sister coming over and sitting on the other side of Mom.
I remember grandmother over under the eaves in the shadows. She squinted at us out in the sunlight.
I remember mom sighing. She sighed a lot.
I remember mom smiling at me after she sighed. She didn’t smile much those days.
I remember mom saying “When I’m better we’ll all go to the zoo and see the lions and tigers and monkeys.”
I remember grandmother turning and walking into the house.
I remember my sister saying something about hearing that before. She remembered hearing it last month on her birthday.
I remember grandmother coming out with my birthday cake.
I remember counting as she lit the candles. One two three four five plus one to grow on six.
I remember wanting to get up and run to the cake and blow out the candles and eat the whole thing.
I remember staying on the lawn with mom.
I remember wondering if someone else would blow out my candles.
I remember grandmother telling me to come over and do it. She was waiting with the knife.
I remember mom pushing me a little, whispering, go ahead.
I remember going over to the cake. I remember mom clearing her throat.
I remember taking a breath just as mom started to sing happy birthday.
I remember getting all the candles out in one try.
There weren’t any trick candles. They all stayed out.
I remember waiting while grandmother cut the cake. I remember taking the first slice.
I remember deciding to wait for the second slice. I remember comparing the size of the second slice to the first.
I remember carrying both plates over to mom on the lawn and standing with both plates outstretched. I asked her to choose.
I remember mom saying ‘thank you, honey’ and taking the smaller slice.
I remember sitting next to mom and devouring my slice and liking the strawberry jam and the cake but not the icing as much as I thought I would.
I remember watching grandmother cutting the rest of the cake and handing out slices to my father and brothers and my aunt Julie.
I remember it being all gone.
I remember grandmother wiping the knife on her apron. All the icing and strawberry jam and crumbs were gone.
I remember everyone going into the house. I remember mom had a little trouble standing up, but she managed.
I remember being at the door and looking back and seeing mom’s slice of cake still on the lawn and grandmother pulling me inside to wash my hands.
I remember grandmother telling me to get in the car, mom had to leave.
Wow. So powerful. What a story, told almost entirely through implication. and this: "There weren’t any trick candles. They all stayed out." Fantastic.
Thanks, Mary. I sometimes think it's best to be direct, but have so much more fun implying. Good when it works!
god. trick candles ! the things we think of.
That's an entire story and so moving. Getting ominous tension out of slices of birthday cake... Great work, Kevin!
Thanks, John.
the ending with mom's slice of cake still on the lawn invites us into the underlying sadness of this piece. Well done. I loved it.
Thanks, Christine. I played a bit with that slice of cake. I'm glad it landed well.
Grandmother turning and walking into the house—so much implied in this piece.
That's so moving, Kevin. And the rhythm of the repetition is like a drum beat leading to the poignant ending.
Yes, really a "wow" story.
[removed by author 07-sept-24]
oh, this is so good.
Mary, something tells me that we have hit pay dirt with the I remember exercise. I hope we’re not done with it. It has created such amazing work that I’d love to see us work with it again and again. I particularly love how folks are giving themselves permission to both remember and not remember and then make up things that maybe they might’ve remembered if they could remember. Wow.
It really is such a great exercise. I'll definitely repeat it at some point. (If anyone says, hey, we did this one already, I'll just blame you....) Another one that seemed to spark a lot of depth and remembering was the "I'm sorry" one a while back.
Thanks!
oooh. Those data ports! Racy!
really. never thought of data ports like that before.
I believe they are HDMI ports. Does that do it for ya?
Looks like it does it for someone.
Haha!
Assume there's a supply of cables on hand.
You are always the practical man, yes?
Well, wouldn't you need cables to exchange data, etc? :)
Yes, exactly.
Now one could argue that in an advanced tech scenario, wireless data transfer would be available, and I'd argue yes, but, the wired connection would have higher fidelity.
And we always go for the higher fidelity.
This is so clever Mark - sounds like the beginning of a longer story . . .
Riveting! I want to know what happens.
Thanks, Sea.
Me too. I have a few related scenes in my head but this is the first time I've tried to write them out.
This is a cool story. I like how it flips and reveals more about the narrator.
I remember us lying by the river on the grass. I remember that we were looking up at the stars. I remember the caress of your breath in my hair. I remember your whisper that we would never part. I remember how I then closed my eyes.
I remember you said you had found a new job. I remember you said you had to move to New York. I remember you said you would keep in touch. I remember the foolish hitch in my breath.
I remember the one time you came back to visit. I remember wondering why you wore all black. I still remember that new haircut of yours.
I remember lying by the river on the grass, after I heard of your Hamptons wedding. I remember I was looking up at the stars.
oh, this is so good, an ache of a story
uh oh. not the Hamptons. ! Sorry Vishal .
Sorry about the wearing all black. Peer pressure in the big apple is a terrible thing.
😊
Very nice. I don't feel the narrator is exactly sad, I though maybe melancholy but I looked that up and that's not it either. Wistful maybe? It's a memory of sadness, but in an accepting sort of way...
An ache, as Mary G said. A lingering ache...
ah, we would not be alive, but for lingering aches.
A lingering ache maybe but I think you had a lucky escape - all that black and the Hamptons!!
Wistful is what I see…
I like the way time progresses in this one, heartbreaking at first, but then the wedding, it seems the narrator is figuring something out, be is going to be ok.
I remember the brown sunsets in Los Angeles, the gasoline rainbows in puddles after a storm.
I remember forcing my doll (a cheaper version of Barbie, tho still big boobs tiny waist and no hips) to have sex with Gumby.
I remember taking Wonder Bread, crushing the dough into tiny hard balls, and putting them in a cup of soda, why? I have no idea.
I remember pop rocks.
I remember pulling out a filling in a back tooth on an Abba Zabba bar.
I remember my fourth grade BFF Nancy Ruiz pulled her eyelashes and brows out, her stubby fingers grasping, then careful looking to see how many she got. I was grossed out at first, but then I started doing it, too.
I remember asking Nancy where her mother was, and she said, “she threw us away, like trash.” She meant her and her little brother, too. I said, “what?” We’d been eating Pop-Tarts, I’d burned my tongue on the filling. “She went back to the Philippines without us.”
I remember looking in the mirror and realizing the habit I picked up from Nancy made my lashes sparse, my brows had holes where hairs should be.
I remember when I first learned the word for hair pulling, Trichotillomania, and how I had a hard time spelling it, or even pronouncing it. Trichotillomania. I remember that even just a second ago, before posting this, I had to look it up to make sure I spelled it right.
These memories. So poignant. i know all about the hair pulling thing. "she threw us away." There is so much here, starting with the perfect image of the brown sunsets.
Hey! You're supposed to be outside!
Very rich with sad and funny memories, Sea. And I love the ending playing with the I remember theme and the new word (new to me too!). I used to make balls of bread crust to eat not out of necessity just for something different - never tried putting them in soda, so I missed a trick there!
I guess we were pretty bored! Kids. They're little weirdos.
They do come up with the weirdest ideas!!
And now I remember the first time I heard the word trichotillomania, from Sea's remembering comment.
ha!
It's such an unexpected word! But it's a big problem, so I guess it required a big word.
Can you huff that tricho stuff?
Haha!
You had me at, "gasoline rainbows in puddles after a rainstorm." This is great Sea.
Oh hey, thanks, Kurt!
Fairfax Stone, Alone
I remember being alone, in a primitive campsite just a quarter mile from the headwaters of the Potomac. Alone with a bag of mushrooms and enough weed to stone a large buffalo.
I remember thinking how this solitude felt comfortable, needed in a spiritual manner. Thinking about how my life, to that point, was a shit show of discombobulated attempts at fame. Playing baritone sax, emulating Dubie’s poetry, and now chasing Jacques Pépin’s culinary stature.
I remember eating the first couple mushrooms, the wind shaking music from the trees. Percussion provided by the headwaters’ constant bouncing from rock to rock.
I remember how wide my eyes felt, as if an aperture had been loosened to allow more filtered sun directly into my conscious. Daytime fireflies buzzing in and out of this consciousness.
I remember a beaver dropping by to ensure my fire pit would not be an issue. Baking a PB&J in a pie iron — best PB&J ever!
I remember how relaxed I felt coming back down from the mushrooms. How I worried that if I were to move any muscles my tranquility would shatter.
I remember my first prep task after vacation was to clean a flat of soft shell crabs.
I remember gathering my shears and pairing knife to perform this task.
I remember how terrified they appeared to me.
Love the juxtaposition here between the bliss state and terror.
I remember the sound of the summers of my early childhood for especially two things: the sound of the cicadas, and the sound of the ice cream truck approaching our street.
I remember the cicadas as being happiest when it was sweltering, and the sound they made was like the shaking of tambourines.
The truck, I remember, had a row of bells across the top of the windshield. I remember that sometimes I heard both sounds at the same time and it was beautiful to me.
I remember the emotion of the moment when we kids heard the truck coming. I remember we would stop whatever we were doing and run.
The Good Humor music started playing. For us, it was not the trigger for joy but hysterical panic that the truck would cross the boulevard where we were not allowed to go, ruining our chances for an afternoon treat.
“STOP!” we shrieked as we ran.
I remember every part of the Marino ices you ate with a wooden spoon. I remember my favorite flavor was cola. I remember you had to use the spoon to pry it away from the sides and then flip the ice over. I remember that was payload: the frozen, sticky sugar that collected at the bottom of the cup. I remember I would suck on the spoon long after I’d finished it because the wood tasted good, too.
This brought back memories for me. Yes, the shaking like tambourines sound. And am I remember correctly--that suddenly the noise would stop? And then start up again?
Yes, I recall the stop and start nature of the cicadas.
I grew up in New York state...there were cicadas and fireflies...now IDK 😐
This is absolutely true - the ice cream man who has been working in in our neighborhood for the last 10 or 15 years has his name painted on his truck. His name: "Scary Larry." I don't know which puzzles me more, the fact that there are still ice cream trucks or the name.
This is supposed to be a major cicada summer. Lots of new "I remembers" being made, maybe. My favorite Marino was lemon. Thanks for reminding me of flipping it over for that intense payload. MMMMM.
Great memories.
We lived outside of town and our local ice cream man was this old dude in a repainted yellow and red panel truck, hand scooping ice cream under conditions of questionable sanitation. Today we would call the whole thing "sketchy".
Ha! Wow.
I remember that day, between Christmas and New Years. A rare day for Portland, when the streets were covered with a half foot of snow.
I remember us walking the dog, along the side of Central Catholic High. The sidewalk was shoveled clear, and when we came to the end, it turned towards the front of the school. I remembered we turned instead of going straight, over the small snowbank created by the pushed snow and out into the street. We followed the dog along the shoveled path towards the entrance of the school.
I remember a car driving past us as we turned, turning the same way, moving slowly on the icy road. I don’t remember who was driving, that it was our neighbor you didn’t like and his six-year-old son.
I remember not knowing why you were upset, as we walked the few blocks home.
I remember you insisting he almost hit us with his large, old SUV, that if we hadn’t turned suddenly, that if we had stepped out into the street, he could have hit us. You said he came within foot or two of us, almost hitting us, but I did not remember this at all.
I remember how after a couple hours we walked back to the intersection where it happened, before the snow begun to melt. I remember pointing out the distance between any tire tracks and our footsteps was at least eight feet away.
I remember trying to convince you the car couldn’t have come that close to us. I remember you accused me of taking the neighbor’s side, denying an ugly truth to in my desire to avoid problems. I remember later how you claimed I was never really on your side. I remember thinking I don’t love enough to simply ignore the truth in front of me, as we carried on the next three days, you reliving that terrible moment again and again, and me, not really believing it was true. I remember the car not going fast, no rev of engine on the quiet Sunday morning. And why would he try to hit us with his kid in the passenger seat?
I remember how this event slowly broke apart our already fragile marriage, my unwillingness to believe something I knew was not true. I could not do that for you.
Amazing, tense, could not stop reading.
Whoa. I'm thinking kids here, so when I get to marriage at the end, I'm brought up short! And then I re-read all over again. Which is every writer's dream..
Me too, thinking it was a kid and his mother, had to reread it and then it all made sense.
I started realizing it was adults as the argument began, and then the pace to the end of the marriage was perfect.
Here we go. Very quick attempt:
I remember believing that babies were delivered on the beak of a stork. I was ten years old. So, imagine my surprise when after the film 'Splash' my best friend told me it wasn't so. She even showed me (on Barbie and Ken) how the thing was done. I remember my utter disgust. I remember my shock when my mother confirmed that it was true. Storks apparently had nothing to do with babies. Ugly penises did. And hairy vaginas. As I learned shortly afterwards from a sex book that my mother had bought me, trying to compensate for the talk she had failed to have with me on the subject. She was always so busy. I remember my outrage. If this is how it's done I have no interest in having babies, I remember telling myself. I liked the idea of a stork so much better. It seemed simpler, and clean. I remember thinking, who came up with this lie and why? I wanted to write to him/ her a letter of complaint: you made me look like a fool, thank you very much. But then I figured that ugly penises and hairy vaginas didn't look so good on a 'Congratulation for your baby!' card. Storks were better. One day everybody will learn the ugly truth. I'm not the one who is going to tell them.
hahahaha! "I'm not the one who is going to tell them." My mom was always straight up, so I'm guessing I knew very early. Only problem was that I didn't know what a vagina was. So even though I didn't believe in the stork, I was very confused for a long time!
How did we ever survive our childhood? :)
honestly, this is something i think about all of the time.
Back to basics.
I'm a little disappointed to learn about the storks not being true. I'll need to give this some more thought...
Childhood is a con job.
If only the adults would just grow up.
lol.
Brilliant! I liked the idea of a stork so much better! Who wouldn't? My daughter and her best friend tried the Barbie demonstration. When her friend's mother found out, she was furious with my daughter for corrupting hers. Gotta tell ya honey, your daughter was leading the show!
Now you have me imagining that card! Ahhhh! Nice little story.
Haha. I imagined it for a second too!
Hahahaha! I love this one! You crack me up.
I knew right away this would be a bit tough, as I write memoir and have been trying to extend beyond that. I may post the more complete version on my own substack.
= = = = =
I remember a perfect childhood, a long stretch of innocence filtering like sunshine through the trees and making sparkling geometric patterns on the bottom of the swimming pool.
I remember a long string of ghosts that I didn’t know was death until I knew.
. . .
I remember Lonnie, the 15-year-old only son who had 4 sisters in my second mom’s house, our neighbors, who would drag mattresses from the house and throw us on them to play war and wrap our arms with sheets and douse them with ketchup, who had a single kidney and his mom worried about him playing football that he loved so much, how he made a firework out of a CO2 cannister from his father’s bullet making equipment, while his parents were on vacation. Donnie knocked on my door and said “did you hear the ambulance? Lonnie lit a firework and it exploded and hit him in his chest, it was so cool.”
I remember thinking that wasn’t cool and yelling for my mom and dad!
I remember them looking through the neighbor’s papers frantically, trying to find anything with a car license plate on it.
I remember hearing the stories about Audrey, the nurse, who calmly came out and lifted Lonnie’s eyelids and saw his eyes twitch and screamed in that blood curdling voice of hers to “call an ambulance.”
And I remember sitting at the dining table with my sister when she told me that Lonnie wasn’t coming back.
I remember I was seven.
I remember it was a week before Carol and Jack would come home to a dead son, but I don’t remember who told them.
I remember my mom lightly pushing my back to go give Carol a big hug, not quite getting why everyone was so sad.
I remember seeing Lonnie in his coffin, in his football jersey and the long line of cars with their lights on driving slowly on the street to the cemetery by the Mission.
I remember riding in Carol's station wagon to the beach and interviewing Lynnette and Laurie, my hand held like a microphone, about what it felt like to lose a brother, and they said “Mom, why is he acting so weird?” and she said it was my way of dealing with things.
I remember an innocent childhood pervaded by the smell of death where no one in my own family died. Until now, when that’s all I can remember.
Wow. I feel so bad for the seven year-old you, dealing with all of it.
Your memories bring tears to my eyes.
extra rough when a child dies.
I remember knowing that our street was the best in the neighborhood.
I remember how we all played in the empty lots.
I remember when Milton Milly’s dad put up a swingset and how grand it was, all big construction pipes, chains, and wooden seats.
I remember swinging on Milton Milly’s swingset.
I remember almost swinging over the top pole.
I remember taking a photo of my brother swinging toward me.
I remember reading how to take that kind of photo.
I remember trying to see the stars at night.
I remember that the lady next door lost her husband during the war and that she met a man every week at her house.
I remember that my father made fun of her, but I thought she was a nice lady.
I remember listening to my other next-door neighbor’s father yelling at him every day.
I remember that my bedroom was on the driveway and
I remember that I could hear everything in that part of their house.
I remember my friend telling me that he wet his bed every night.
I remember that we were ten years old when he said that.
I remember the mean lady down the street.
I remember my mother telling me that she suffered from a painful disease.
I remember the Gracy’s who had no children and
I remember how Mrs. Gracy always was knitting like Madame Defarge.
I remember hearing my parents discussing what I may have told her.
I remember my friend Baron Ziltez lived across the street.
I remember him telling me his father was in trouble.
I remember when the police came to talk to his father.
I remember learning what tax evasion was.
I remember when Mr. Ziltez went to prison, and I never saw him again.
I remember that my scoutmaster, Mr. Minor, lived down the street.
I remember that he was also a school principal
I remember babysitting for his three sons.
I remember hearing that he had been caught with photos of naked boys in his wallet.
I remember that Mr. Minor shot his three sons, his wife, and himself.
I remember being sexually assaulted by my father.
I remember learning that my father sexually assaulted my two brothers.
I remember knowing that my father was trying to seduce all the boys in the neighborhood.
I remember wanting to kill my father.
I remember thinking that my street must not have been the best in the neighborhood and was not an ordinary street at all.
I remember wanting to leave and never return.
I remember how bright the stars were when I left.
Oh. I can barely breathe. In fact, I don't think I breathed out at all while reading this one. So well done, Mark. The beating rhythm as things descend, as it gets harder and harder to read. And then that last line--a glimmer of something there after all of the darkness.
Wow! What a wonderful comment. Thank you mary. I have loved developing my writing skills through all of these prompts.
Riveting Mark. Great job with the progress of tension through the piece.
Great piece
I remember the smell of the carpet on the floor of my bedroom.
I remember lying there and watching the popcorn ceiling make shapes.
I remember when my bedroom was mine, and so, the rest of the house was not mine.
I remember listening mostly to three records, according to what I had found at the Goodwill: Procol Harum’s A Salty Dog and the Broadway cast recording of Hair and The Velvet Underground’s not very famous VU.
I remember feeling that I was not doing it quite right.
I remember feeling that it was the most familiar thing to be doing it wrong, as if I were trying to slump soft material into a different shape, imitating something I vaguely recalled, always making do with the wrong tool for the job.
I remember discovering when anything could be found on Napster, if you waited enough hours for the little bar to fill up.
I remember learning that staying up late enough meant suffering the next morning, but also that the house would become quiet and would become mine.
I remember a strange noise outside that sounded like a man saying RICK.
I remember, for a long time after, thinking of this when I met anyone named Rick.
I remember hearing a creaking sound at night from the garage and convincing myself that something was really happening, and lifting a walnut chair over my head and standing next to the doorway for a long time.
I remember feeling my heartbeat without putting my hand to my chest.
I remember being horrified when an adult told me they didn’t really have many happy childhood memories.
Except, I remember not actually being horrified, but being almost judgmental. Disbelieving.
I remember lying in bed on my back, with a paperback balanced on my front, finding out that my heartbeat could make the text bump up and down.
I remember wondering how I had never noticed that before.
I remember wondering if I were very sick.
I remember being allowed to paint the walls any color I wanted, the years of deep purple, the years of terra cotta.
I remember clearing out that house one December, alone, making so many trips back and forth to the same hardware store and the same Goodwill.
I remember needing so many coats of primer.
Such tension in this one--so many lines on the edge of it. And oh yes, lying on the carpet, listening to the same records, over and over.
Love the part about Rick. How we translate noises into people.
I particularly like 'I remember wondering how I had never noticed that before.' There's always a first time, but why this particular first time and not yesterday? Could be about anything.
And clearing out the house alone, years later, when you’re the one who is left. So real.
I remember that Salty Dog album.
At one point my daughter painted her room a new color, or combination of colors, every few weeks. I may be exaggerating, but that's what I remember.
I remember trying out different patterns of waking and sleeping with my college roommate.
I remember working as an usher in the summer at Blossom Music Center to get into the concerts for free. I remember wearing a dress with hiking boots, which was weird then but today I see it all the time.
I remember lots of things Joe Brainard remembered even though I grew up in Ohio ten years later. I remember reading George Perec and Annie Ernaux being inspired by him, but my own memories are closer to his than to theirs.
I remember turning my bedroom into a darkroom and developing black and white photos while I listened to cassettes made by my brother. I remember him playing all the instruments and singing all the vocals, patiently recording one guitar after another.
I remember sitting on the floor at all night screenings of experimental films.
I remember browsing in bookstores that specialized in artists books.
I remember you waiting for me in front of the covered market and, as soon as I saw you, we were in each other’s arms.
I remember the cold drizzle as we walked arm in arm in Ventimiglia and you put your hand in my pocket to keep warm.
I remember cuddling on a park bench and thinking we were like Brassens’s Amoureux des bancs publics. I remember you asking me to read you a chapter from a Tale of Two Cities on your phone. I remember you showing me a picture of your girlfriend from way back, the one you were going to marry, and telling me how while you were away working on a cruise ship she discovered she had leukemia and how she died several months later.
I remember you smiling as you stuck your tongue out at me. I remember smiling back. I remember making black-and-white photos for you with my phone. I remember your sweet messages.
I remember crying myself to sleep last night.
I remember
I remember
I remember
I remember
I remember
I remember
I remember
oh, so tender and painful. Just lovely.
Thank you Mary. I'm wrung out too.
Yes, I'm sure.
I love how suffused with art and art-making your life is.
Funny I didn't see that before you pointed it out. A lot of those things don't exist anymore, at least not in my own life. Darkrooms and cassettes. I occasionally go to film screenings but not the kind where the audience stays for hours looking at films of all kinds and lengths. Our attention spans today are too short for that. Bookstores struggle to exist let alone bookstores specializing in artists books (in Paris we had several in the late 70s but they didn't last more than a year or two).
I remember – what exactly? The memories of my mother’s six-year half-hearted presence in my life are like old photos, drained of warmth.
I remember her screams the day she caught her finger in the car door, the shock, the blood and the leather finger stall she wore for some weeks afterwards.
I remember my screams at the sight of the dead fox draped over her shoulders as she set out to a party, its limp paws, its glass eyes fixed on me.
I remember her hand-stitching a fairy outfit for me to wear at a fancy dress party, a navy shift decorated with overlapping triangles of coloured felt. The scraps of felt lingered in our nursery long after her departure.
I remember the twist dress she brought me from London, a red woollen shift with a flounce at the knee, two pom-poms at the collar. She taught me how to do the twist.
I remember her teaching me French, from a book, Je Lis, Tu Lis.
I remember one morning on our summer holidays following my parents and their friends to the beach for a sunrise swim. Is it actual memory or a remembered photo that shows her pig-a-back on a man not Daddy?
I remember how the sea folded me into its turquoise embrace and I yielded, until Daddy pulled me free of the waves.
I remember the morning a bird flew in their bedroom window, how it frightened her, how it beat at the walls and ceiling, landing finally on her hatbox on top of the wardrobe. Daddy guided it to the window.
I remember collecting tiny cowrie shells on the seashore with her. She poured them into a glass jar to place on the corner of the bath. In another corner stood a jar filled with gaudy beads from broken necklaces. I have some of her costume jewellery now but I don’t wear it.
I remember standing at the door of the kitchen in our holiday rental watching her plunge a lobster, all agitated claws and feelers, into a pot of boiling water. I hear the claws scrabble on the saucepan lid, and the high whine that I took to be the creature’s death throes.
I remember the nights I stood at the end of Daddy's bed crying and saying ‘I miss Mummy’.
I remember that I said it even when I stopped meaning it.
This is amazing. All of it. This line really hit me: "Is it actual memory or a remembered photo that shows her pig-a-back on a man not Daddy?" But the whole piece really adds up to great effect.
Thank you Mary. I think your prompt gave me a way into these scattered and small memories so thank you for that too.
I like how you have the big moment up front, that your mother's presence in your life was brief, and then all the details of those six years. Very moving, as is 'the sea folded me into its turquoise embrace and I yielded.' Mysterious, the power of the sea.
I love that book. This is such a beautiful exercise. I'm not very happy with what I wrote, but I gave it a try. There will be a lot of strange sentences or other faults, no doubt!
I remember reading in the diary my mother kept for me when I was a toddler, I remember that she wrote about that time I got hit by a car, and she sat down in the middle of the road and took me in her arms, crying.
I remember my mother screaming my name in the middle of the night, I remember running to her room and being caught by my uncle, saying it was ok, Mam was having a baby.
I remember my mother's thick black hair and her red lipstick, I remember standing in front of the window in the hallway at school, looking down on the playground where she was talking to other parents, thinking my mother was the most beautiful creature in the world.
I remember that my mother cried one day because I had started singing. She said I had stopped singing for a long time.
I remember being homesick at school camp, the teacher who drove me home, his silence and his hairy hands, I remember how my mother opened our front door when we arrived and how I fled into her arms.
I remember my mother sleeping over one night at the hospital where I was staying, I got out of bed in the middle of the night, sneaked into the hallway where they had put her bed and crept next to her, it was so cold but she was so warm.
I remember smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, looking out the window into the backyard, with all the curly ivy climbing up the dead tree like a child clinging to a mothers skirt, feeling her eyes on my back, there was so much anger in them.
I remember when they cut the tree down, the ivy laying around with nothing to hold on to.
I remember the day my mother left to get some groceries and never came back. She had quietly moved her things to a shed in her friend's garden, right before winter. I remember I was worried that she would be cold.
I remember thinking she would come home once it would start freezing, since there was no fireplace in the shed where she was living now. I remember being very naive about certain things, taking them for granted, I was so wrong.
Ansuya, this is beautiful, sad, loving, and so well-written. Each line is lovely--I felt each one in my heart.
I thought this was beautiful. I particularly loved, “I remember when they cut the tree down, the ivy laying around with nothing to hold on to.” I seemed symbolic of the whole story. And was a turning point, the coming lost. Lovely
Beautiful!
The moment you've grown up enough to have a cigarette, reflecting on the vine like a child clinging to a mother's skirt, then her eyes so angry. Wonderful evocation of the moment a child pulls away from a parent.