All of the memories I’ve recorded thus far are conventional remembrances. But there are also visions poking around in the back of my mind which are cut from an entirely different sort of fabric. These memories, detached from tangible reality, occupy the groundless vantage points which inhabit the spaces between memory and dream. These memories too, are precious to me– even more precious, perhaps.
If I were to ascribe numerical primacy to one of these fleeting nymphs of memory, hierarchy’s heavy crown would surely come to rest upon the disproportionally large head of my two year old self. The memory, a vivid image of a small living room, cascading sunlight, my mom and me. There, the tender moment between mother and son before her water broke and my sister screamed her way into this world.
That moment is frozen in denim. I am clad in brand new over-alls, my mother is helping me with the clasps, obviously struggling to hook the right clip into its peg. Our words hover around us like flies, beckoning this snapshot into imagined film. Can two year olds speak in complete sentences? Do they know what a question is? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. But I do know our conversation well. I listen in whenever I close my eyes and summon those still spirits.
“Mama, when is the baby coming?”
“Is she a me or is she a you?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
Forever, still, that snapshot. I can see my mother, so young, expecting her next, her last. She smiles. My curls capture and reflect morning’s sunlight; it’s August and it’s warm. I’m young and malleable and know that soon, I will not be alone. No longer will that sun shine on only me. My un-buckled buckles will go unnoticed until the baby is fed. I am no longer lonesome; a blessing and a curse at once with a scream.