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]]

A very engaging and interesting read. It held my attention throughout. Thank you for sharing this excellent and thought provoking piece.

[Darkwaters]

Oh, as a mom this broke my heart. It is very engaging, sad and beautiful. It has the tenor of a poem for it flowed just like one. I found myself reading it as if it were a poem at any rate. It's perfect.

[Rey]

your story just pulled me in, and i was deep with thoughts from the first word to the last. beautiful... aloha!

[Haden]

"I carry this feeling in the place of a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Traveling with me, my faithful ghost, a 17 year old memory and I."

I was sure it would be a prose piece and I wasn't far off. Really beautiful write. I wanted to stop reading it when i guessed what it was approaching. Your writing was too good to stop. The mother in me was screaming out ... but 17 years ago ... what's the point. terrifying, tragic, beautiful write. thks J.

[Bryce Simonds]

Amazing from start to finish, good job. I enjoyed reading this. Keep it up!

-Bryce

[Nathan Strange]

A sad thing this, the whole piece is just full of lonlieness, the paragraph at the end is very well written.

[Silvia - Scribo, Ergo S..]

What can I say that hasn�t been said her already? .... Chillingly beautiful! THe opening lines carry it all ... "At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand against mine 17 years ago. I carry this feeling in the place a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Traveling with me, my faithful ghost, a 17 year old memory and I ." xxx

[BrightEyes]

Now, I will wonder all night about this little boy and what happened to him. I couldnt' stop reading once I started and it will stay with me for quite a while now that I'm done. Awesome job.

[[untitled]]

Wow..I sat here spellbound for a few minutes.
It had me twisting and turning with the story.
Excellent!
JKC

[Aka; Donnie (ramone) Ka..]

interesting reading.... to say that your writing here, draws the reader in is a tad understated.
once I started reading, I couldn't brush it off, I couldn't cut to the chase... entralling? perhaps that describes this write adequate.

as well, the emotion in this bit, well even the heartless has to feel the tugging at the ghost of their heart.