A Brief Call to Memory: Fragments

I suppose I couldn't help finishing this [never-ending] piece up in some way, after weeks of jotting down notes, writing, erasing, writing. Memory comes in fragments, and they are entered here as they entered my consciousness through some winding tunnel of images and time. Some may argue that childhood, especially those early years that seem most unfair, must be dropped little by little as we enter into our adult years, so as to preserve what we can of each present moment, leaving all that is tainted behind. I find that picking up each of these fragments is the key to living in this moment, for without these bits I am nothing - a timeless, spaceless spec. This piece is less about me, and more about her--this distant relative to whom I owe my life.

A Brief Call to Memory: Fragments
New York, 1985 – 1992 (approx.)

Growing up in Dix Hills, Long Island, was no impossible feat. Born and raised under the modestly built roof of 37 Cedar Ridge Lane, I was a messy, dirty-kneed kid, always in long shorts, always in the play of summer evening. I didn’t have the wildest imagination but I knew I had the time. I lived in reflection, a small light in the nucleus of a diamond.

I road my bicycle up and down the steep streets of my neighborhood, usually by myself, but sometimes with my neighbor Sandy. She belittled me. Or I felt littler than her. She was mean, strong, athletic, bossy. I was mild, skinny, clumsy.

My mother and I hugged in the kitchen for hours, sometimes days. My head buried in her big warm breasts, her forearms hung around the tops of my shoulders. She kissed the top of my head so strongly, I could feel her nosetip squishing against me.

My father took me to the local high school running track on a drizzly Saturday morning. He ran and I trailed behind him, wondering the moment I began when it would end. How strange to run in circles over and over again. The grass was green, each strand glistening against an intruding grey sky. I enjoyed the smell of the damp lawn and hoped that when we finally returned home, the rain had left earthworms under the newspapers on the sidewalk.

I imitated the once-a-week Mexican cleaning lady by stripping myself of my diaper and using it to wash the living room windows.

At the supermarket I picked up a small magazine of horoscopes in the check-out line. On each page was a list of predictions according to date of birth, including the predicted time of death. The forecast for my last year alive: 62. Grandma was almost 62. Very old.

On Passover my cousins put on a play that relayed the story the famous exile. My sister had left me out; no one even said anything about my insignificant role. The story was all wrong, and I don’t remember the part I was to play—but it was surely all wrong.

I stayed home from school one day, feeling ill. Mom dressed me in a navy blue sweater covered in large white polka-dots, and together we drove to the zoo. From a photo I know that I had fed a goat using a baby bottle. From my memory I know that as I rode the zoo amusement ride, my mother looked like a small hero with a halo of brown blowing hair, miles and miles below me.

We went once to a strawberry field, Mom and I. The red glowed only like the red of healthy berries in an autumn sunset could. My hair tickled my chapped cheeks from the breeze for most of the walk down the blooming aisles of the field. My oversized basket wobbled about, tapping my sides.

I played ‘teacher’ in my bedroom, sometimes in the afternoon, but usually very late at night, while the rest of the house slept. My students were precious and I believed in them. I offered a gold sticker to the poet, a bit of candy to the painter, an extra carton of chocolate milk to the storyteller, and a good report home to the one who asked the most questions. I kept the classroom under dim light, as to stimulate a dream-like creativity amongst my pupils. I gave them everything I had, and in their glimmering eyes under that placid pink light, I knew I was powerful.

I walked twenty minutes to the small, unkempt diner down the road to buy luke-warm ham, cheese, and mayonnaise sandwiches for Mom, Dad, and my sister Rachel one Sunday morning. I was happily responsible for relieving the hunger of three loved ones. At the diner I handed over my damp money, I asked for extra napkins, and with my small fingers wrapped around a greasy brown bag of ham and cheese, I walked home, a humble yet confident smile adorning my face.

My Aunt gave birth to a black-haired baby boy. I saw him with his mother in the hospital room an hour after the birth. How black that hair, and how high above his head it stood. And his eyebrows as thick and connected as a furry caterpillar. I hoped that my baby wouldn’t look like that.

I went skiing with Mom, Dad, and my sister. Sister had frozen toes and mom stayed with her in the lodge while Dad and I ventured up the mountain. On our ski down we came to a fork in the trail. On one side of the fork a signed warned of danger. Dad went in the right direction but I caught it too late. I wondered if this is what danger felt like.

Always reflecting, like my mother. I looked at myself in many mirrors – pharmacy windows, washrooms, Mom and Dad’s bedroom, the silent television, even spoons. Always reflecting and taking quiet notes, as if to remind my self of my own existence.