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

[Chan]

WOW! A very powerful, sad memory. This pulls at my heart. I really don't know of any other way to describe how this story made me feel aside from the fact that if I wasn't crying from the last story I read, I'm definitely crying now.

[Erotic Goddess]

WOW! This is very powerful my friend. I loved this piece, the description and the memory itself, so sad, yet still so very strong after such a long time. You desribed this beautifully and I really enjoyed it. It was easy to read and while sad, had a certain strength in it that I loved.

xxoxx
Goddess

[[untitled]]

This story again is full of passion, but it feels and sounds to me like your last story its like reading poetry to me. I don't know if thats what you want to create here...But remember to not confuse the two a story with a poem. But I believe this will make an awesome read...

[Jaded Perception]

This was a hard read for me....If you've read any of my stuff you understand why
So I detatch myself and read it as simply a reader and a writer, and its a great write as all ur work is! Emotional and moving. Real or fiction...I have deep empathy for both mother and child. good job!

[Kristin]

You captured the emotion very nicely.

[Antony]

This is a very sad story anyway you look at it. It will never be easy for a parent to let go and move on with their life. You did great to bring the emotion onto the page for your readers to feel.
Tony

[Sandra K]

This is a very sad story.

[Brooklyn Darkchild]

This is sad girl, it actually brought me to tears. Not too many people know it but this happened to me. Real talk. I guess that's why my writing is always populated with motherless children.
You've captured the tone just right. On the technical side though there is a lot of repetition that I know you meant for emphasis but to me it comes out as redundant. You can tighten the mechanics up, find different ways of phrasing the same thoughts, and this will lend even more power to an already stirring tale.
You are Blessed;
What God has for you IS for you!
Dc

[Will B.]

This story is one that has been told many times but not in the eloquent way that you have created. Well done on making the tragic tale your own.

[Constance L. Hartwell]

The plot was amazing...you really have a talent for capturing the essence of sadness (in a good way). it was a good read! kudos