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

[E. A. Cook]

Moving. Well written. Tragic.

What a write! Rarely am I moved...but I am.

[Autumn Dawn Gorny]

A very compelling piece. I really like how you worked up to the raw emotion of the abandonment. This was hard for me to read because I was abandoned by my birth mother

[CarrieLynn {Chameleon A..]

I love it...good work! :)

[Marquise]

wow, words cannot say just how powerful this story is. And how mature of you to write which such composition. This is not easy to do. to tell a story of abandonment with such emotion and description is not easy. I hope you've enteredthis in a few contest, you surely will win.

My favorite part...

"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 and without looking back she will hold his little hand tighter, then let go. Walking swiftly she is no longer a mother but a woman with a memory that will become 17 years old .

Man, I could feel that hand being sqeezed and the confusion he must felt after a while... whew, very good.

[John Destalo]

Wow this is really emotionally moving. You really dealt well with a very scary experience. I love how you repeat the word and image of the hand throughout the piece. I also really like the image of the hand clinging to every emotion.

Well done.

[God's Little Whispers B..]

Oh my! What a write this is my dear. You most definitely need to follow your dreams
and your journey in writing. You wove this story right from the start as I wondered just
what it was with the little hand. I was thinking the death of a child...perhaps a child
given up as a young mother....just many little darting thoughts. This is such a sad read
and still screams of realism. I know such things happen somewhere everyday. There
but for the grace ...could have gone one of us under different circumstances I
suppose. I am not in to editing honey. I know I make all kinds of mistakes and at my
age even have to stop and think sometimes about the spelling of a word that I know
all too well. It's just the short term memory stuff that likes to mess with me....smiles.
Thank you for finding me. I will be back tomorrow to read more. You are one
fantastic writer. Goodnight and God bless you...Mary Anne ^j^ aka God's Little Whispers

[Lisa Verdon]

This piece is really painful--for both mother and child. The way you slowly led into the child's abandonment was fantastic. I was completely drawn in. It was determined, yet, somehwhat, dreamlike until you hit the reader with the final paragraph. I could feel his desolation.

[Michael Anyanwu]

This is true horror sans the fake blood, lurid viscera and Hollywood glamourization of the grotesque.

Words cannot begin to express how this incredibly detailed tale of abandonment and the end of a childs innocence has impacted upon my mind.

You truly have a rare talent to craft tales of darkly poignant normalcy that tug unexpectedly at pains razored hem.

Please dont ever stop working your magic.

[Teresa Bridges]

Awesome! My heart took a nose dive when I read the end of this. You definitly are a great story teller! Keep it up and stay blessed! Waiting to read more from you!

[Donald Meikle]

One Hell of a tale to write and to read. It certainly carries a message of need.