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

[Rain]

Jasmine..
This piece is very haunting. You manage,brilliantly, the tragic abandonment, the emotion trek to let go of the little hand, with such style. I really like this. I want to delve deeper, but in truth, you wrote it as it should be. I loved it. Rain

[J.benjamin Rose]

I very much enjoyed your writing style on this one and look forward to reading more.
You are thoughtful with your words and I felt i got a lot of "bang for my buck."
I too have adopted a similer style.
Thanx for sharing.
jbr

[Julia Scott-douglas]

A well written and tragic tale. It brought tears to my eyes and gave me goosebumps.

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

This is a stunning work of fiction although I can see it tragically being true for many nowadays. It is simply haunting. Brings tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing such a masterpiece. You are a divine writer indeed.
Light,
Siddartha

[Genie]

This is devastatingly beautiful. The heartache is evident from the opening line, your words carrying me on their relentless tide until the wrench of the heartache becomes mine.

Very well crafted, thoughtful, and tender even in the midst of tremendous loss. While I would, as others, like to know more, the way you've left much to the imagination makes it that much more poetic and powerful. The 'what ifs' have claimed a place in my soul.

[Kat Williams]

I lose myself in the feeling of this ancient hand with tiny fingers eager to grow beneath mine.

Beautiful....

[Raef C. Boylan]

I could see where this was going from the part where the mother evades answering the boy's questions, but the way you executed the abandonment was skilfully done - sudden and not overly-dramatic.
We're not given much insight into WHY - e.g. mother too young or too poverty-stricken or simply unable to cope - which lends extra intrigue to this. The nature of how she leaves him is quite brutal (in comparison to a kids home or similar, where there is technically less risk to his life), and his reaction to this is left to our imagination...
...how long did he wait, i cannot help but wonder.

Good writing.
Thanks for posting it.

[Bubo]

such a tragic story............beautifully written.

[the poet who never was...]

"At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand against mine 17 years ago"
------great opening line! It intrigues the reader just enough to continue reading and yet its still very poetic.

"...but she will continue walking with this little boy until his exhausted legs can walk no further, until the day becomes dark, until the streets become unfamiliar. "
------nice! the image comes across very clear and her longing to never let go is very very very apparent.

SAD. The story is great, but again--and maybe its just my penchant for longer stories--but i wanted a little bit more...thats a good thing though...always leave your reader wanting more!

[Gandré]

This is a great poem, dear! I enjoyed it. Intelligent writing, bright, slick and pleasing. Something I want to read as novell.