Bark and Leaves

Our memories are moldable plastic. Perhaps I find solace in my earliest ones because I was young enough to trust myself. I trusted the good in the world, that my dolls would never leave my side. I knew I would find the proper dishes for my fort in the forrest. My dress-up apron would never fray. My parents would not grow old.

We are the potters of our moldable, plastic memories. I choose to cling to the memory of playing tennis on the gravel with my father, laughing as we bounced rubber balls off large rocks. I remember putting sticky pink blush on Grandma Helen's cheeks, rouging them with my index finger and concentration.

My brother and the way his mouth curves when he concentrates. That upper lip curls itself downward to a point.

That tree in the middle of the yard, an evergreen that now towers over most things.

There is so, so much I remember about the first 13 years of my life. So many heartfelt memories and I begin to cry from its beauty. I could become lost in that yester-world.

And after the move I remember pieces, moments of life. But never again as I once remembered. Never again those lilacs in the spring, the taste of a carrot right from the garden. Those plastic memories. I try but all I can remember is the VO5 shampoo I used once: coconut and lime. I remember the smell of the wood floors Dad once laid, the texture of the pull-out sofa.

What happened to that sensuality of life? Childhood versus adolescence offers a vast divide. I am more at home with my childlike self, amidst my bark and leaves. Amidst its ease, perhaps.

Unless

Work shuts down when the lights are turned and the door is locked. We sometimes shuffle together, once in awhile alone, toward the parked cars. We gather ourselves into the seats and dissipate the lot, intending to gather tomorrow for another round of everything this is.

And the night stretches before me when the walks with the dog are finished. The leaves outside are raked. Dinner and dishes and dessert and vacuuming; it is all done. The night stretches before me and it leads me to that moment that comes each night in the silence that makes me catch my breath.

I am afraid of failing at that thing I love most. 

And another birthday nears and I am still quite young. But life is marching itself onward and I have but this one chance at it. And that self I was in college shakes the ribcage of who I am now, trying to reawaken the energy I possessed for writing. And my self now says, "hush, you do not know the definition of tired" and takes another exaggerated breath and scans the imaginary list for tomorrow.

"Be like a child," my soul begs me. 

But how can I now? For I am strewn, and worn, and gasping for air.