Daily life is simply that:
Day-to-day, moment to moment,
crisp and clear or dazed and drawn.
Memories of the past, however, are either
sharp with pain or
soft and dear.
Individual moments are clearer upon remembering.
Images
Wisps of time
Actions you can recall with perfect clarity.
Other details of the day, the week, the year are hazy, so
We begin with context when we speak
“When I was a teenager,”
“When I was in college,” or
“When I lost my dad, I was….”
All references to other people are in relation to you –
to your perceptions and interpretations.
You remember them not as they were, but as you saw them or
believed them to be.
You can remember the curry flavor of the saag paneer you ate
on the day you decided to quit your job.
Remember the clingy, musty smell of the room in which you
played as a child while your grandfather lay dying, and that, on that day, you
unbraided the yellow, yarn hair of your first Cabbage Patch Kid and your mother
was very cross.
Remember that there were four chairs on the front porch, two
on each side, and that your mother sat in the one closest to your window and
furthest from the wind while she wept
and that an owl was hooting, and
how many steps it took from your room to your mother’s
bedside after you woke from another nightmare. You hoped she’d be there when
you needed her.
For poignant memories, you can recall exact dates and times,
what you were wearing, where you were standing, and how many other people were
present.
You were sitting in the second row of the classroom when you
heard that JFK was assassinated.
You were wearing a red dress and checking email when you
heard the Twin Towers had fallen.
You were cooking eggs on the stove when you received the
call that told you your uncle had died.
You were 15 days from your 31st birthday when your daughter came into the world; that it was an Olympic Smart Scale that recorded her birth weight of 6 lb 11 oz; and that her skin was bright red, and her thick black hair was plastered to her tiny newborn skull.
These memories force us to recall minutiae:
the feel of your feet on the floor
the fabric of the chair in which you sat
the taste of the liquor and how it burned your throat and
made you think you were invincible
the hot droplets of water stinging the skin on your face and throat
the reflection in the mirror that confused you even though
you knew it must be yours, but you didn’t recognize yourself
the sound of the train at 12:30 a.m. as you sat up studying
for finals
whether or not the crickets were chirping on the night you
lost your virginity on the grass in the park near your boyfriend’s apartment
if it was silent or people were talking
if sirens were blaring loudly nearby or fading in the
distance before or after your friend’s house burned down
how bright the lemons were in your daughter's hand and how they complemented the color of the dress you'd chosen for her to wear
how a school mate smelled of perfume or body odor depending on how
often they bathed or if they even had access to a shower
whether they were coming or going for the first time or the
last….
These are things only you know.
Only you experienced them.
Only you.
A poet, like a TV chef, attempts to describe these details
in such depth that those not present can, in fact, feel as though they were.
My advice is this:
Write in the dark.
When you are sleepy.
Don’t edit.
Don’t look back at the pages until you’ve run far enough
away from them so they don’t hurt you anymore.
Share them when no one’s looking.
Your handwriting will be illegible.
These memories are your intangible possessions you will bequeath
to those who outlast you; the survivors of what will come.
We all die.
What will we leave behind?
These memories, no matter how dear or despicable, painful or
prudent, are your legacy.
You leave the lives you touch
The life that outlives
Your death.
We all die.
What will we leave behind?
Words on paper.
Photographs.
Pray that the survivors will understand
Can interpret what you have said and that you lived.
The marks will decompose.
Who will ever know
They were there?
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