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

[Norma J. Jessee]

Such a sad story. Beautifully done but sooo sad. I as a mother could never have done that to a child of mine no matter what the circumstances. but it has been done by many mother's. Perhaps the decision was the right thing perhaps the wrong. It is a haunting story that leaves me with unanswered questions as to why the child is being left. We can only guess.

[Yira Simone]

I reviewed this and then the site closed down when I tried to submit my review. I think you did a masterful job of depicting a mother living with guilt and carrying the weight of it along with this child's memory as well as the boy's fear and weariness from all that walking. It seems both mother and child are still haunted by that memory that day. This story to me was heartbreaking. Very clear and vivid imagery and well crafted words fill the space of this sad tale. Thank you for sending this my way.-Catrina

[Angelheaded Hipster]

The very first thought I had, when finished with reading it, was...What the f**k?!?

I mean, this could very well be a true memory for some mother or father out there.....The descriptions were painted nicely, I hate to use that word, it's not a nice a tale....but you did a good job....

[Fran Marie]

A sad story , so very well written~Fran Marie

[None]

A very moving story which is beautifully written. The content makes me wonder more about the background of the feelings involved. Is there a sequel in the works?

[Emily B]

beautifully written.

[Fantasyfairy]

How sad. So heartbreaking. To go and just leave him there. How could she do that to him? How can anyone call themselves a Mother after that? It breaks my heart to think of him, standing there, so alone, and just waiting for her to come back to him. So haunting, and makes me want to cry for him, and for her, for all that she will miss. Such a beautiful and sorrowful piece you have written here. XX

[Diana Owen Busy with Li..]

again such a beautifully written story..... I am so envious, I wish I could paint pictures with my words.

[Robert Luna]

You write with such a rawness to your emotions that a reader can feel everything that you feel as you write. I felt this was a very beautiful tale of remembering of moment of time and how life is constantly moving and evolving into more than just the past thoughts and dreams. I rather enjoyed the way you displayed this without going overboard with sappy images that made you feel more like you are looking a photo album instead remembering life.

Wonderfully Done!!!!

[Beautifully Tragic xPoe..]

Wow. That was a sad story. But a great one, nonetheless.