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

[ST]

you are good woman!

scary good

[Kees Kapteyn]

I thought I had read something like this before! Thank you J. for bringing this story back to us! Again I feel that strong, loving feeling of having a child's hand in mine, and the innocence of this little boy. It is definitely sad as the story goes on as he grows tired and is eventually left abandoned. I actually cried for my own son while reading this. He will be 17 next April.

I can see the clear transition you' ve made from the narrator's dream to her waking self and this is very well done! The guilt that this narrator feels is powerful and can only be generated between a parent and a child- nothing is deeper, not even romantic love. Thank you for bringing this story back to us- everything you've been writing lately has been amazing!
I'm putting this one in my library to keep my rememberance of my son as a little boy alive.

[Rylan Batten]

great...and sad. enjoyed it a lot, and didn't really see anything to comment on. Thanks for posting

[George Love]

Extremely sad. There are a few typos, but they are easily corrected.

[Ailee Way]

this is beautiful and sad-- i felt like i was right there with the mother, and like i was the boy. This was really well written-- good job.

[Robert Burns]

A sad story here � well-written, it flows smoothly, and it keeps the reader interested.

[BCoz]

Excellent ! I was riveted, I wish it would have gone on. The makings of an incredible mystery.... Began right here. Great work ! B

[Victoria Lee~]

Wow, this is a hearthbreaker. Your words wrapped sadness and regret around me as I ready your story. Great job put the sadness and loss into a written form..

[Dave "Doc" Rogers]

ooooh, good bit of writing. A painful moment, oft relived, in the remembered impression of a little hand from 17 years earlier. This was done well. A snap shot moment in time, a haunting memory. I am impressed. The subject matter, of course, is difficult, but the emotions evoked in painful memory are done well. Good stuff!

Cheers!
Doc.

[Michael X]

hi j, wow, this is tremendously touching,
rendered as an insightfully sculpted work
of heart, your flow was perfection, imo, the
meaning had a metaphysical aspect to it,
spiritual, displaying the wisdom in knowing
the pain of growth. its very beautiful, much peace, mike