Scraps and fragments of Portugal

My mind is empty. I want to try scribble down a few memories. What do I remember?

That, when I returned, interaction with other children was confused. That I'd never seen snow, and so in the Winter I collected it in a plastic vanity box, to save.

The motorway lights, driving back to England, as infinite to me as stars. In the daylight, empty roads curving through mountains. We're in a van. Bed-time for me means crawling into the footwell; Mum reads me a story as I wrap myself round her feet.
Days go by. I ask "what is England like?" and my parents struggle to form a description, so they tell me about Winter. I imagine countries to be a group of white circular plates of equal size, bobbing on the water, connected by pathways. I decide that we must be on one of those pathways right now.

I remember stopping for petrol in the base of dry mountains, a dusty shack with one of those football tables stood outside. There's a row of dispensers, where you put in a few coins and it releases a handful of sweets. When dad climbs back in to the van he empties his hand of smarties so they scatter on to the dashboard for me.

I find an obsession in myself about old roads. I continually ask, whilst pointing at old dirt tracks "is that the old road?". The old road being the previous road, now unused, this gives me my very first notion of time, that others existed before I did.

That was driving back from Portugal.

I remember the busy legs and floor space of markets at my eye level - boxes of screaming yellow chicks waiting to be sold, and dancing hand-made puppets with wooden hooves. I'm told I sometimes went missing at these markets, and would be found hours later, helping out on a stall. I don't remember that. I do remember wandering in to a house on my own, up three battered stone steps.  And the room contained a circle of chattering ladies, swaddled in patterned scarves. They were sat upon stools, weaving baskets and I sat amongst them for a while to observe.

When we lived at Ingrid's farm, there was a line through our kitchen, where the orange tiles had risen to a peak after an earthquake. We cooked outside with a large stew pot. I watched wild cats dips their paws in and cup out the meat.
Flowers and vines enclosed the floor that had fine dust like flour to my bare feet, a hand-built roof of branches sheltered our rusty table. We sat on wooden planks that were propped on old buckets. Outside of our realm we were met with plantations and fig trees - I would be lifted up to pick fresh fruit. To the left of our home was a large well, that I swam in amidst the swarms of giant dragon flies - with bulbous petrol colours and wings like the wispy skeletons of leaves.

Reviews

[Pax]

“My mind is empty. I want to try scribble down a few memories. What do I remember?”

The first opening lines really caught my attention. I contemplate how many times do I feel my mind is as empty as nothing. This helps me dive deeper into my thoughts.

How you describe everything here is colorful, and very innocent like voice. Like a childhood memory of sort.

This made me smile wider:

“I imagine countries to be a group of white circular plates of equal size, bobbing on the water, connected by pathways. I decide that we must be on one of those pathways right now.”

It’s so innocently portrayed, relayed in a beautiful grace and manner.

You know this made me reminisce about my childhood as well, even though I only get flashes of memories about the past I still remembered those - boxes of screaming yellow chicks waiting to be sold – I remember that I have seen something like that in the market place in my home town.

All in all it made me remember some fragments of my childhood days. This piece have so much heart – deep in thought, dancing through all the memories that suddenly lingered. It’s amusing to read such beautiful piece, quite delicate and mindful events of the past. This reads like a journal. I am glad I stumble on this piece.

[Dan Hiland]

Wow! This is very well done- so much so that I hesitate to offer suggestions of any sort, aside from wanting you to provide more to read.

This is the way I want to describe things- with little emotion, letting the words paint the pictures.

Reading this reminded me of how I feel when I am deep in thought, trying to conjure up childhood memories. Once I am finally in the midst of a scene, everything is quiet- but the emotion comes back to me about how special that time was, observing and taking things in without making judgments- relying on the five senses to provide all that was needed to be known about what was happening around me.

Thank you for sharing this sensory feast. It is one of the best reads I've had on this site.