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

[[untitled]]

Awww, very touching story there Araujo, very touching indeed. I really did think it was tragic in the sense that we seemed to know what might happen, but the descriptions, as good and in-depth as it were, almsot made me feel like i was reading about somebody who already was doomed, merely just going through the motions, i can't really explain it well so forgive me if it sounds off.

[fireromeo]

OMG i loved this it really touched me to the point I was on the verge of tears
such an amazing piece of writing

[Nana Carmine]

This is very sad, but I really liked it. I like your descriptions and it draws my attention. I like it very much!

[Ruby Dodd]

I liked the story a lot but was left with a strong urge to find out what happened to the child and with a strong urge to kick the mother in the seat of her pants for leaving him there alone, Disired reaction, I suppose so. therfore i commend you on a sucessful write.

[Spiritscript]

Excellent writing!

[SM Davis]

Very well written.

[Judy M Cox-Rouse]

How ever so capturing. Heart throbbing for mother and child. I love your work. You have this so well discriptive in the beginning that it pulls throughout. Perfect wonder.

[Lyla K]

Beautifully heartbreaking.

[J. Johnson Higgins]

This is rather fun to read because it makes me somehow read into it quite a bit (probably more than I'm supposed to, ha ha). I read it several times and came away with all kinds of metaphors beneath the basic story of a mother and a child. It sounds tragic every time though. My thoughts might amuse you but I read 3 different stories each time. In one, the mother abandons her child. In another reading, it is possible that the child was missing when she returned. In the third reading (perhaps biggest stretch of mine), the child is the woman's inner youth; immature, guarded and capable of being "lost in the crowd of other hands on that busy day". Perhaps she had released that child and become a woman. Now all she keeps is a memory that will never age. To me this metaphorical interpretation is still tragic because she abandons this child in pursuit of yearnings, or possibly an addiction or lies rather than a natural aging maturity. Told you I read into it too much.

[MLG]

A very strong story line - You have created word images that make the reader want to continue through the story � certain part could have been written more precisely � but I enjoyed the read very much.