Reconstruction of Memory, I Disremember You

Author’s Note:
Margaret Atwood influenced this style of writing which incorporates a mixture of two tenses. Past tense is used when the character is reflecting on the memory with the consistency of present tense when that character is describing the memory tied to her emotions. This shows the importance of that memory even in the character’s present time.  Atwood and Ken Kesey also use short sentences in their writing that get straight to the point — a style I used. This is important in conveying the character’s sentiments but also highlights the main focus points of their memory.

I Disremember You

The sun peeped through the curtains of my room. I feel slight discomfort, almost like I’m forgetting something. The feeling of searching for it without knowing.

The sound of laughter grows between two people.

At age six he taught us to climb trees, exclaimed my mother, barefoot!

Age six repeated in my head. How can she possibly remember such memories? People forget everything before the age three. I don’t have a single full memory even after three.

Mother stood on top of the garden that extended to the lively forest. A fig tree stood tall in front of her wanting to hide the scene. I shifted to the right, there a better view. She knelt down placing her head against the brick surface. She wore a cream-colored sweater, slightly loose jeans and black heeled boots. Her signature look.

I recognize how much has changed as the surrounding environment aged her.

Her locks loosely resting against her back. I wondered if she prepped it at the salon before seeing him. She always had it done. I don’t think today. Yet, it still falls ever so silky. I hear a painful scream escape her mouth.

My mind suddenly became blank. There is no more of that memory left in me. Did I climb over to comfort her?

Do you remember him?

Yes, I do but no I, unfortunately, don’t.

Yes, I tell them.

Days pass as the tissues surrounding her continued to build a tower. The room was nearly empty. White walls enveloped her. How did she spend her days in this terrible room that consumed her all? Her cries echoing from one wall to another. An endless cycle. My father grabbed my hand pulling me to the door. My eyes remained on her figure girdled by thin paper, sheer white sheets, grief, and tears.

The only memories I had closest to him were through her. Today, her eyes still glossy at the mention of his name — only now there’s a glimpse of acceptance. She tells me he did good things for me. If only I remembered the way she did.