Like the Moon, Smiling
Some nights, I lie in bed whittling away seconds from the clock by letting my mind wander idly. Most of the time, my mind chooses to replay memories - some new and shining (or scathingly so), some not so new, some not so nice- reeling through the back of my head like a silent film showing in a one-seater movie theater.After all these memories are exhausted, only then do the ancient memories return.
These memories are so ancient, almost embedded in my body's muscle memory, that they ceased to be chronological impressions; instead, they've been replaced by symbolic images and sounds of a life once lived.
A doll. A pen and callused fingers. A gasping laugh. A comic drawing of a wavy yellow-bursting sun wearing dark shades.. A candle flickering. Darkness. The moon, full and shining.
The last is my favorite memory. It comes easily to me unbidden, unlike the others that needs some urging to come forward. But it always come to me after remembering Darkness, and like a much-hoped for salvation, the moon rises and smiles.
The moon reminds me of my mother's smile. Graceful, benign, shining incandescent. Not blindingly bright that hurts the eyes and makes you close your eyes --- but a glow that invites you to come closer, rest, and trust.
I suppose it does make sense that I remember her last and most easily.
I hurt all over, remembering the moon, smiling. It's the hurt of something precious lost, irrecoverable, but also kin to to the kind of hurt that reminds you something has been branded in your soul, irreplaceable. I make the memory of it my own tattered blanket, which I cover myself up with, as I lie fetal-like and vulnerable, while whittling away seconds from a ticking clock.
These memories are so ancient, almost embedded in my body's muscle memory, that they ceased to be chronological impressions; instead, they've been replaced by symbolic images and sounds of a life once lived.
A doll. A pen and callused fingers. A gasping laugh. A comic drawing of a wavy yellow-bursting sun wearing dark shades.. A candle flickering. Darkness. The moon, full and shining.
The last is my favorite memory. It comes easily to me unbidden, unlike the others that needs some urging to come forward. But it always come to me after remembering Darkness, and like a much-hoped for salvation, the moon rises and smiles.
The moon reminds me of my mother's smile. Graceful, benign, shining incandescent. Not blindingly bright that hurts the eyes and makes you close your eyes --- but a glow that invites you to come closer, rest, and trust.
I suppose it does make sense that I remember her last and most easily.
I hurt all over, remembering the moon, smiling. It's the hurt of something precious lost, irrecoverable, but also kin to to the kind of hurt that reminds you something has been branded in your soul, irreplaceable. I make the memory of it my own tattered blanket, which I cover myself up with, as I lie fetal-like and vulnerable, while whittling away seconds from a ticking clock.
Comments
Post a Comment