My memories are woven through the blades of grass; they are strung like garland through the trees; they are planted firmly in the ground with each tree trunk; in the depths of the earth where the flowers were taking root, preparing to bloom yet again, they, too, rise as the flower rises, meeting the heavens with upturned faces.
My memories are in the house that no longer stands. The lamps that hung from the ceiling, dimmed bulbs behind frosted glass. The carpet, thick between my toes. The chesterfield, long enough to stretch with my child’s body and arms outreached, trying to touch the other end. The stockings that hung by the woodstove, filled with fruit for me to relish. Christmas lights are faded, out of focus, as we played games while the adults talked. The snow fell outside, while the coyotes hunted rabbits, each of us oblivious to the other.
Where do these memories go when the mind is no longer alive. When the body has ceased to exist, what happens to the conscious. My memories of my childhood are dear sweet friends, the knick knacks of my heart. It seems a shame to not will them to someone. I feel like I should wrap them up and gift them to my children, and their children after them. To keep them, my memories, alive. And, me. And, by extension, the child I was. The hope that came with Her. All she could’ve been, as she played games, and read stories late into the morning, and ran around chasing fairies in the yard, long after the sun has gone down.
What happens to the memories that are tied so closely to the land? That even as the land changes, the memories remain the same and become stronger with each passing day. The memories and the land, so intertwined that they course through the veins. The blood that is, I swear, painted with the same colour as the earth of the island.
The earth is vibrant with the memories of my life. So vibrant that I can feel it humming deep inside me. She is beautiful.