I remember a time of innocence, of trust flowing from me like nectar, drawing those around me closer and closer until we were as one being; of guilessness that kept the world orderly and unchanging around me, for it was never required of me to remember a lie; of unstinting love for the light in mother’s eyes, for the dark anger that hovered at times in my father’s voice.
I don’t remember what that anger looked like, or where its palpable origins could be found.
I remember a time of joy, of unending laughter that seemed to ring above me in the air, and I could breathe in mirth that filled my skin and brought my hands to grandmother’s face, where I could trace in the intricate web of lines around her mouth a history of a people’s happiness writ upon her face.
I don’t remember how she died, or where, or how she would have liked to be remembered.
I remember a time of waiting, of expectancy pulsing through me like blood rushing to meet the emptiness of a wound; of falling from great heights of time uncertain of its duration, unsure if I was falling up or down, expecting something, someone with no name bringing anything I could ever want.
I don’t remember what it was I waited for, nor could I say for certain whether it was a gift or a curse, or even if I hold it in my hands this very day.
I remember a time of brokenness, of something deep within me left incomplete; of hurried, blessed nurturers whispering secrets to one another, saying incomprehensible things about tomorrow; of incandescent waters rippling waves of emptiness inside, at last to bring a stillness like dawn in distant lands.
I don’t remember when it was, this brokenness or loss, or when it was a lofty voice within, without, pronounced me whole.
Lynn Pompa wrote this piece on July 7, 2015, in response to the prompt “I remember; I don’t remember.” in The Tuesday Night Writers’ workshop.
