I Remember

I REMEMBER

 

 

I remember how I felt when I passed Embudo last Friday on the way to Taos. I remember the urge to stop and reclaim myself. I remember the Embudo Post Office. That’s where I picked up my mail. Brenda Clarke c/o General Delivery Embudo, New Mexico. That was many names ago. I remember the best letters were my Aunt Pearl. They contained love and money orders. I usually cashed the money orders at the little store in Dixon – spent the money there too. I loved canned corn and I remember I bought cases of it and ate it cold. I ate it cold because I couldn’t stand the way the cinders from our open hearth flavored the food that we cooked in the fireplace. That was the only way to warm the food so I ate most of my meals cold. I remember I was pregnant then and sick all the time. I never knew whether it was my pregnancy making me sick or the water from the Rio Grande. I remember that cinder-flavored food made me sicker. I remember lying in the sunshine in the rocks above the commune. Frank warned me about the snakes that also liked to warm themselves on the rocks but snakes were the least of my problems then. I remember the old shepherd that walked with his sheep along the rocky trails that led up the hills behind the commune. We never spoke, that I remember, but he seemed friendly. I remember the A&W Root Beer Stand. It was on the west side of Highway 68 just before the Plaza. If there was any money left from Aunt Pearl’ money order we bought hotdogs with chili at the A&W. I remember the hot springs. I remember hitchhiking to Espanola to pick up a windshield at the Trailways bus station. I remember the nurse at the old hospital in Taos that let me stay in the bathtub as long as I wanted and gave me a clean gown to wear. I remember the doctor that operated on me– the one that saved my life after the botched abortion. He told me the crazy things I screamed as they were administering the anesthesia. I don’t remember what I said but I remember being crazy. I remember the man that picked me up as I hitchhiked back to Embudo – alone – after they released me from the hospital. I remember he took a knife from his pocket and cut the hospital ID bracelet from my wrist then he raped me. I remember leaving Embudo. I remember how the wind and rain came through the torn roof of the TR3. I remember taking a bath in the motel in Texas where I finally stopped after hours and hours of driving in the rain. I remember running out of money in Mobile, Alabama. I remember a woman named Perry that gave me enough money to get the rest of the way home to Pungo Creek – to my Aunt Pearl. I remember the bar-b-queued chicken that Aunt Pearl cooked that first night. I remember the clean sheets on the bed I slept in that night. I remember how the sun shined the next day. I remember sitting in the rocking chair on her front porch and looking at chickens and mimosa trees and thinking I must have imagined Embudo. I let her brush the tangles from my matted hair and paint my toenails pink. I let her make me feel like her little girl again and I was convinced I must have imagined the terror and the loneliness and the hopelessness of those silent nights when Steve and I huddled together in that cold cabin for warmth not affection and no words were spoken and I was sure no one could ever love me again

 

Reviews

[Butch Carter]

I'm old enough to remember those TR3s--always wanted one. I enjoyed your story. It pulled me in and kept me there all the way through.