Category Archives: memory

Nevermind

Posted on by
2

‘Nevermind,’ she said quietly to herself as her suede shoes were rapidly ruined by the rain. At least they had character now.

She stood under her broken umbrella on the unfamiliar street corner and marvelled at the genius of the contraption she held above her head.

Somehow the rain never made her sad anymore. It reminded her of a place she missed dearly but was also glad to be away from. It reminded her of him, of that street, of that house and of the wet-cold winters. And it always brought a smile to her face, even if her shoes had become its victim.

The Train

Posted on by
Reply

The steam train spelled out a name that wasn’t his. Each of the little wooden carriages was a letter with a different grain and colour; all with knots, but none of them the same size or shape.

This was his favourite toy and he had cried when his mother tried to get rid of it. He was embarrassed that he had cried, but it had worked.

Before he played with the train he liked to sit and look at it. He would separate the carriages from each other and from the engine and sit them a small distance apart. He liked the way the timber in each piece of the train was like water, swirling and flowing in a different way to every other wooden stream.

The timber smelled like the small forest that sat behind his grandparents’ house. The back right wheel of the engine had a small squeak, like a baby mouse, he thought.

He sat with crossed legs and watched the stationery, separated little train, inspecting it for new scratches at the same time as imagining the boy whose name it spelt sitting on the floor and pushing it around. In his mind, the engine’s wheel squeaked like a chorus of mice; the train wheeled around corners, capsized, and was miraculously restored to the haphazard tracks it travelled. The boy whose name it spelt made all the appropriate noises with great gusto and no shame: he was lost in the world of the train.

The train would speed through the afternoon and the two little boys – the one whose name the train didn’t spell and the one whose name it did – would sit in the driver’s compartment together. Their hair would be full of knots and their faces covered in soot and grime. They would shriek in unison as they approached a very tight corner at a dangerous speed, and sigh with relief when the train finally pulled into the last station of the evening.

In the room where the boy whose name the train didn’t spell sat, the train’s engine and all its carriages were still separate. He now moved to join them all and slowly pushed the train back into its box.

Carefully he closed the box and put it back on the shelf in his cupboard where he kept his favourite stones. In the cupboard in his mother’s room was a similar wooden train that did spell out his name, but he had never played with it, despite much encouragement to do so. Only with his brother’s train could he imagine they were playing together.

How to Use Your Stovetop: A Manual

Posted on by
1

Ron cannot remember how to use his stove. He is standing in the kitchen, barefoot and wearing a dressing gown, with a frying pan in his hand. The instruction manual, ‘How To Use Your Stovetop’, has vanished completely from the archive room in his head.

He peers at the slate of cool, grey metal shining at him from underneath its protective bars. He has always thought the cage was to help the stovetop user, but now he feels vaguely betrayed; the cage has switched sides without warning.

Ron does not want to call his son again, so he will have toast.

The toast cooks and Ron is careful not to watch it: life experience has taught him that, like a kettle, the watched toaster never pops. Instead he watches a small bird flitting around outside. After a little while he wonders if this bird might have the same memory lapses as he does, because it keeps returning to the same spot on the same tree without any apparent knowledge it has been there before.

The popping toast frightens him. Its mechanical noise is very loud in such a quiet house. It reminds him of the stovetop and how cold his bare toes are. Sighing, he thinks of all he needs to do today. On his desk there are three thick books to read and a box full of photographs to sort through.

As he butters his toast, the sound tearing through the otherwise quiet room, he is struck by the irony of it all. That he, the ultimate obsessive photographer always on the lookout for a moment to capture and remember, should be losing his memories.

Sometimes he wakes violently in the middle of the night with the distinct feeling that someone has had something small and cold in his ear or up his nose. Something very much like a hook. Every time he sneezes he thinks it is a memory, not his soul, that escapes. When no one else is around he will say ‘Bless You’ to himself; he has never before been superstitious but he is getting desperate and will do anything he can think of to keep the archive intact.

So this is why he must work so hard each day. He has re-read all the books in his numerous bookshelves once already since the diagnosis; he goes through photo albums every day, writing down people’s names, birthdays, favourite colours, their relationship to him; he writes letters to his wife, who will never read them in her grave, recounting in as much detail as possible the story of their long lives together; he listens to music every day, trying to name all of the composers’ other works; he walks slowly through his garden, naming all the plants.

He does all this so the next time his granddaughter asks, “Da, what’s the best day in your life so far?” he can answer with genuine certainty. And so he might remember how to work his bloody stove.