memory and remembrance

my father is in the hospital.

he has a breathing tube and a blocked heart in which a

machine, that has a little balloon, is helping his heart to keep on

beating.

the drs can’t do anything until he starts breathing on his own.

my heart too feels blocked.

it hurts.

and my breathing is shallow

labored

hollow.

empathic.

i’m always living with (in) my memories.

memories are absent yet in their absence

they are present.

most of the time, memories for me are blurry…

many voices speaking at the same time

like a stream through a forest.

i can pick out threads or noises

and identify them

hook them up with a picture in my mind

and say to myself

“yes…i know what this means”

or, better yet, i can start to remember.

remembrance and memory

although tied together

are two different acts

that we read simultaneously but

i know that i can have memories without

the narrative act of remembrance.

for my father, remembrance is odd

after i was told that he was in the hospital and

i began the familiar yet infuriating

process of waiting and gathering

i kept picturing a memory

a noise that i could isolate into

a snapshot

and then narrate

into something more solid more

than just sound.

my father is retired from the

florida department of transportation.

he was a state road inspector.

one summer his job site was close to our

house and for most of that summer he came home

for lunch.

he usually ate blts and drank iced tea

while sitting at our slight yet welcoming

kitchen table.

i remember many times watching him eat his lunch

usually in silence. all or nothing:

my father carried around his authority in either silence

or with terrifying utterances that would cut

right through you leaving you no other choice but

to remain docile

but mostly, it was his silence that was

present…almost embodied.

i would usually be coloring at that time of day.

florida heat was too oppressive even for an

eight year old

so i would color and watch him eat.

as is my usual modus operandi i was

impassive, not really thinking that

this particular moment would be renarrated

many years ahead

but in this renarration what i remember best

is the sound of my crayola against the page

the waxy smell of color either

minding or transgressing the lines of the image

that mixed

with the lingering scent of bacon

and the sound of ice cubes hitting the side

of the glass

my heart is aching right now.