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

[Elizabeth Slaght]

I think this piece is amazing, at the end i could only sit back with a tear in my eye, and it leaves you wanting more which is always a good thing. good work!

[Joey Johnson]

I usually do not like stories that make me sad. But this one got me to thinking about life and I like it when somebody can write something that makes me think. Good job and thank you.

[Melissa Powell]

I felt abanodoned when reading this story. It was very good and sad, and left me feeling anxious.
Great one!

[angelinmypocket]

My first thought after reading your sad little story was, "What happened to the boy?'" I just need to know that it was not bad....that you did not abandon him. Things like this are a reality in modern society...but it's such a sad situation for a child and his mother to be seperated for any reason. I know you loved him or your mrmories would not be so strong. A very strong write about love and loss.

[Darla1]

You write very well....this story captured my attention from beginning to end. Funny what we remember even as a child. Funny when we think that someone will be back in a few minutes which seems like hours and then if they never return. Memories always there, just below the surface. THank you for sharing....and asking to be a friend.

[Dkincaid]

The simple line "Very well written" works with your story. Content, also, excellent. You took a simple/complex situation and made me feel that. The writers objective, to have felt by the reader, what was said by the writer, was accomplished here.

You impressed, I actually reviewed with a full paragraph.

D

[Bob Carney, "Soon ..]

How tragic and sad. Not sure how I feel about somehow feeling a connection and sympathy for someone who abandons a child. Maybe because of the regret that plagues her I can find this person a little less reprehensible for doing so. Either way, it's a heart wrenching story and touching more to those that have experienced raising a child.
This is so well written and thought provoking I read it twice. Really well done!

[Anthony Morningstar]

I'm not sure why but this just pushes me back to when I was I kid. I always had these abondment issues. There was no reason for it. I guess that's what I think about most when I read this.

[E. Nichols]

I simply love this. It's beautifully written. Lovely work.
-Sphinxy