I bring him to my palimpsest mind, each remembrance a recreation, a revisioning. And I wonder how many times I can recall his face, his voice, his touch before all that remains resembles not what was, but what I have fashioned. Within my mind is a room. I keep him there. I weed it of encroaching memories. I maintain it like a pleasance. Yet, still, there is the coldness of distance, a distance that grows by the day as the river of this war carries us away, from that night, from that place. He is as a face, faint, at the bottom of my winter.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
1944 (my pleasance)
I bring him to my palimpsest mind, each remembrance a recreation, a revisioning. And I wonder how many times I can recall his face, his voice, his touch before all that remains resembles not what was, but what I have fashioned. Within my mind is a room. I keep him there. I weed it of encroaching memories. I maintain it like a pleasance. Yet, still, there is the coldness of distance, a distance that grows by the day as the river of this war carries us away, from that night, from that place. He is as a face, faint, at the bottom of my winter.
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11 comments:
I seem to be in a mood this morning upon which the tenderest of words, rend and rip holes in me ... as this just did.
I will be along soon, with needle and thread.
Another brilliant piece of writing. Your abilities continue to amaze me, and the way you say it just comes to you effortlessly. I could try and write for hours, days, weeks, and never come close to what you write. You are truly a very gifted man. Now, I think I'll spend the rest of the afternoon weeding my memories. Trying to make sure past memories are as they truly were, and are not simply becoming a figment in my mind, or what I want them to be. It seems as time passes we don't, maybe can't is a better word to use, remember things as the actually were, but how we wanted them to be. Sigh. Thanks for reminding me of this.
H
Awaiting your next post with great expectations.
(-:
So very beautiful. Sigh..
This has both a tone and a rhythm that seem to reach deeper still with each read, reminiscent of the process of meditation the breath within the words becomes increasingly steady the more that is confided. Spoken with a certain equilbrium, suggestive of acceptance learned through necessity, time as it passed having exposed the need. So I imagine. Her awareness of how her memories may(/may have) changed and the way in which she expresses this, kindles an even greater affection for her. The care with which she tends to her memories of him, the gentle, loving nurturing, the imagery that this creates, of her having watched over them so mindfully for all these years is so touching. So eloquent, so beautiful, so moving.
This seems to jump off from the pages of a very good love romantic novel that i will not want to put down. Tell me more.
~Silver
Silver, this series "1944" currently has 43 posts, so if you are looking for more, there is plenty on the table and hopefully, plenty more to come.
Autumn, this short piece was written as a whole, which is to say, hewn from a single block of metal. It is a singular fear. I couldn't have written this ten years ago. But now that my memory is not what it was, I share this fear of Mary's.
As you know, Von had his own issues with this very same subject, although for quite different reasons. And we know how it tortured him.
LotL, who would you be if you had not a memory in your head?
Your kind comment is noted and appreciated. Thank you. :-)
I am amazed by how Mary is able to guard her thoughts so well. It seems mine are blown so easily, dandelion fluff to the wind. How can I fashion such a substantial room, Mary? I am in need of keeping.
I'll see what I can do Erin. :-)
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