Carrying A Memory

 

At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand pressed against mine 17 years ago. I take this in the place of a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Buried under the bowels of the heavy earth, the image will appear in my head, like a faithful ghost aged by the many years.         In this memory there is a sun that is still pouring its bright colors over the scenery. The streets are loud and active yet I am so absorbed in the feeling of a little hand grasping mine. I gaze down at the child to find a misalignment in the collar of his shirt and release those precious animate fingers to adjust it. Hurriedly, his hand jumps back into mine afraid of getting lost in the crowd of other hands on that busy day, on that busy streets. He is content again as he feels the tender stroke of his mother. I nurture and stroke the little hand as the wind quietly presses itself through. It is small, with wild fingers and skin of velvet. I hold it and the fingers so eagerly wish to grow beneath mine.         We walk a great distance, away from the noise of the honking cars and the heavy odors in restaurant corners, away from the crowds and the street vendors.         "Where are we going," the child asks repeatedly, puzzled by the nature of our unexpected walk.         "To a place with all the things you could ever want," I reply again and again in the same promisingly tone.         "Are we going… to… oh, I know the toy store,” he suggests using his wishful thinking.         "Be patient for a while," was my all I could say.          I hold his small hand as it grows heavier and heavier. His legs begin to tremble, but we walk and walk, hand in hand, until the day becomes dark, until the streets become unfamiliar.         I remember how I grab tighter so as to remember that touch for the years to come. I turn to face him, "Hey?" He responds quickly without the energy to look up, "Can we stop, can we take a break?" "Yes, but I think I dropped something important a few blocks back, wait for me here, okay?" I whisper encouragingly.         Without looking back I hold his hand a bit tighter, then let go. Walking swiftly, I count the steps that it takes before I am no longer a mother but a woman with a memory that will become 17 years old. I walk and walk, turning the corner leaving the child behind. Alone, with large watery eyes, the little boy watches as I disappear behind a building. At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand pressed against mine 17 years ago. I take this in the place of a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Buried under the bowels of the heavy earth, the image will appear in my head, like a faithful ghost aged by the many years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

Reviews

[Jonathan Bryant Dean]

This is a sad story of remembrance. I like what you have described, and the plot is atrong. There are some small editing issues. I noted a few run-on sentences, but I do not feel the need to point those out.

I will bring your attention to a few phrases that I thought were incomplete:

It be content again as it feels the tender stroke of its mother. Now we will walk a distance this hand and I. "Where," the child asks very puzzled by the journey. -- Should there be another word between "It" and "be"? Maybe it would read better as, "It will be." And there should be a question mark after "Where."

Inside of this memory there is child's hand, there is my hand, and then there is a boy and his mother. -- There should be another word in the underlined phrase. Maybe "a" or "the."

This is not a slam by any means, just what I hope you will see as a helping hand.

JBD

[Deanarrlack]

At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand against mine 17 years ago. I carry this feeling in the place a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Traveling with me, my faithful ghost, a 17 year old memory and I . It is more than a dream that reocurrs, more than a moment that once transpired and every so often I turn to its comfort. I lose myself in the feeling of this ancient hand with tiny fingers eager to grow beneath mine.

Each day will be accompanied by that beautiful hand. I will nurture it and stroke it as the wind silently presses itself through. The touch will always be the same but never will that small hand grow eagerly beneath mine. Buried under the bowels of the heavy earth, the image will appear in my head this faithful ghost aged by thousands of excruciating days. I carry it the way I carry my thoughts; it is the only way this hand will become alive again. I remember this quiet little hand and how it never escaped mine. I remember this with a pungent nostalgia, so strong that it sinks deep into my heart and clings on every possible emotion. I remember how I will find a small misalignment in the collar of his shirt and release those precious animate fingers to adjust it. Hurriedly, the hand will jump back into mine afraid of getting lost in the crowd of other hands on that busy day, on that busy street. It be content again as it feels the tender stroke of its mother. Now we will walk a distance this hand and I. "Where?," the child will ask very puzzled by the journey.

"To a secret place with all the things you could ever want," his mothers will reply promisingly.

This stanza opens us up to your world. Its poignant and enrapturing. Gently unfolding, very well written.

And the rest is a slap in the face. I felt warmth and fear when she abandonded him. An excellent write. Thankyou for posting this.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Danny-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Lydia Shutter]

Heartfelt sentiments expressed in a way that made me think. Does judging and condemning make us feel better? We are but human...and at times it does. Very well written. Lydia

[Aya Fayyad]

oh you masterly described abandonment because its truely heartfelt.
isnt it just the worse feeling ever! great write!! you're really good :)

[Kalliope [ u g l y b e ..]

Woah. I loved this. Thank you for aksing me to review your works, as I thoroughly enjoyed this story.

It was sad and touching and tugged at my heart strings. Like many other people, I read this assuming the child had died, or been aborted, or miscarried. The abandonment at the end, the Mother purposefully walking off and leaving her child hits the reader like a punch in the stomach. The emotions of the female character are so conflicted with her actions it leaves the reader stunned and questioning, a good thing in my opinion. This is a story that makes you think twice.

Now, as you asked me to review critically, I...did =P. I copied the whole thing into a word document, and have worked throguh it, putting in brackets all of the things that I feel need to be changed (there's not alot, I promise =P) Um, if you want, I can PM you a version of this where all the changes are put in place, but your choice.

At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand (I would love to see the word �pressed� here)against mine 17 years ago. I carry this feeling in the place (Missing word here? �of�) a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Traveling with me, my faithful ghost, a 17 year old memory and I(you put an unnecessary space here). It is more than a dream that reocurrs(�reoccurs,� double c, one r), more than (I feel like the word �just� could work really nicely here, showing the importance of what you talk about) a moment that once transpired(comma here) and every so often I turn to its comfort. I lose myself in the feeling of this ancient hand with tiny fingers(comma) eager to grow(comma) beneath mine.

Each day will be accompanied by that (�this� instead of �that� could work really nicely here) beautiful hand. I will nurture it and stroke it as the wind silently presses itself through. The touch will always be the same(comma) but never will that small hand grow eagerly beneath mine. Buried under the bowels of the heavy earth, the image will appear in my head(comma) this faithful ghost aged by thousands of excruciating days. I carry it the way I carry my thoughts; it is the only way this hand will become alive again. (Paragraph break here) I remember this quiet little hand and how it never escaped mine. I remember this (I kind of feel the �this� is unnecessary, and a bit repetitive after the previous sentence) with a pungent nostalgia, so strong that it sinks deep into my heart and clings on (�to� rather than �on�) every possible emotion. I remember how I will find a small misalignment in the collar of his shirt and release those precious animate fingers to adjust it. Hurriedly, the hand will jump back into mine(comma) afraid of getting lost in the crowd of other hands on that busy day, on that busy street. It be content again as it feels the tender stroke of its mother. Now we will walk a distance(comma) this hand and I. "Where?,(delete comma)" the child will ask(comma) very puzzled by the journey.

"To a secret place with all the things you could ever want," his (capitalize His) mothers(delete �s�) will reply promisingly.

"Are we going to the toy store, mommy?" His wishful thinking will bring the mother to a throbbing within the corners of her sunken heart.

"Be patient for a while," (insert �Is�) her only reply.

Inside of this memory there is a child�s hand, there is my hand, and then there is a boy and his mother. Walking very far, this mother will pause to think for a bit, to think deeply on a troubling matter, but she will continue walking with this little boy(full-stop, and then insert something like: �They will walk�) until his exhausted legs can walk no further, until the day becomes dark, until the streets become unfamiliar.

I remember how my hand will hold his hand deeply. That small little hand will feel frail from the distance, but I will hold it tightly (comma and insert �so�) as to remember that touch for the years to come. How important remembering will become.

The mother will cry with hidden tears (insert �so�)as to not alarm the little boy and with difficulty she will turn to face the child, "Adam."

He will respond quickly, "Can we stop walking now, and can we take a break?"

"Yes, but I think I dropped something important a few blocks back, wait for me here while I go look for it, okay?" she whispers encouragingly(comma) and without looking back she will hold his little hand tighter, (insert �and�)then let go. Walking swiftly(comma) she is no longer a mother but a woman with a memory that will become 17 years old . She will walk and walk; turning the corner leaving the child behind and alone with big eyes,(full-stop, rather than a comma. If you use a comma it becomes a sentence splice and fuses to separate clauses. A comma just isn�t this powerful) this little boy will watch a woman as she turns the corner and disappears behind a building.

One last thing. Sometimes in this piece, you swap from third to first person, and this can be confusing for the reader. The swap near the start, after you talk about the hand and then talk about the journey in third perosn is fine. I am not so keen on the swaps when you are telling about how this boy and his Mother walked. I sometimes had to reread pargraphs to make sure I knew who was talking, and who they were talking about. Still, that's just personal preference.

Overall, a beautiful piece of work that is a pleasure to read =D
Char.

[Blackbirdsong]

This is powerful from start to finish. At first I thought the child had died or even been aborted, but by the end I realized that it had been physically abandoned. I qualify abandoned with "physically" because she hasn't abandoned it emotionally or else there wouldn't be any lingering memories, and certainly none so powerful that she could still feel his hand in hers. What she has done is haunting her and probably will for the rest of the her life. A well-written story of what real tragedy is.

[angelina neves]

Uau! What a wonderful sad heartfelt story�
What a intelligent bright way to bring the difficult subject of �love� and �remorse� and �abandonment� in a non judgmental way�
And at the end we feel the need to judge and �condemn� (as we always are used and like to do!)and we are with out �reasons�, details, and data!
Amazingly beautifully done!
Thank you
angi

[Kirke Nix]

A beginning that interested me enough to want to read more, and an ending that was a lovely- though heartbreaking- twist. You wrote beautifully and hauntingly which fits this melancholy subject very well.

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

What a good story and such a sad sad subject, it is heartbreaking to think of. you did a wonderful job writing this keeping the reader in the story.

Chloe
xoxo

[Scot Savage]

You had me fooled. For a brief time, I thought the child had died instead of being abandoned. Perhaps, even retelling that tragic Adam Walsh tale. Interesting twist that I never saw coming. Hats off to you!

[Vicki Phipps]

I can't imagine another emotion or experience more terrigying than abandonment. This story describes it well. Thank y ou for writing this...good work