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

[Stacy A. Foster]

This was beautifully sad. It brings some questions at the end. Did she abandon him or was he stolen away by someone? It reminds me a bit of the film, "The Deep End of the Ocean." If one lets go of a child's hand in public, even for a moment, they can disappear forever. It sounds like it was her choice though:

Without looking back she will hold his little hand a little tighter, then let go. Walking swiftly she is no longer a mother but a woman with a memory that will become 17 years old. She will walk and walk; turning the corner leaving the child behind.

Regardless, the emotion in this is shared well, along with regret and longing to change the past. It's important to be able to remember when you know in your heart that is all that is left.

[Velvet Mist]

SUCH SADNESS BUT WELL DONE~ hugs V

[Alba T.]

This is written beautifully. So sad, so poignant. I loved it

[Tom G]

Your warm invitation of frindship, brought me here. Clear electric powerful work.

IT HELPED ME MOVE TEARS THROUGH MY EYES. Today is the second anniversary of my son's death. He was 39. Tears do help I know we'll all be fine.

[All faded blue]

Very powerful!

[CROSS QUARTRMANI]

That was great!!!! Very unique and thought provoking story.

[T. R. Writer]

This is a very emotionally intense and thought provoking read. I wasn't sure where you were going, but the end was unexpected. I feel like there could be so many different meanings to this.

[Deborah Shepard]

Emtionally beautiful you are so talented

love and light deb

[Meaghan M]

I so did not expect that ending. But I guess that's what you were going for. I was very beautiful, yet so sad. I could never imagine abondoning a child, but you write it with grace. Well done.

[Dezaraye]

This is so emotionally intense and beautifully written. How tragic and haunting.