the night we hid our childhood memories in drawers and cupboards and make believe-safes?
How we wrapped secrets and fairy tales in the blankets our five-year-old selves couldn’t sleep without.
Whispering, we gently placed them all in unforgettable treasure chambers.
Do you remember how the shoes that blinked when we walked slowly faded, greying like streets heavy with rain, as electricity bills ate all our ice cream pennies.
Our hiding places got more secret, and as we walked past them yelling Marco, they stopped replying, as deadlines and invoices and parking tickets called louder than memories ever dared.
If you do, then please let me tell you how last night I found that childhood drawer, and today I’m sat here on the floor, flicking through dusty sweet wrappers wondering whether I should give them back or not.
I almost throw them away.
Stamps are expensive and memories are heavy. I’ve learned it’s not cheap, to wrap nostalgia up in polaroid pictures and Royal Mail envelopes.
I won’t throw them away though. I don’t think I ever will.
Your eyes have seen the sun rise on 90 days, you have felt the dust of three months on soft skin. The woman holding you has gathered the days of war in her lungs, and where her memories are now smoke signals not even she knows how to decipher, her hands still tell her brain how to hold your little body so you won’t fall, how to shield you from the world she has fought and conquered and forgotten.
By the nursing home kitchen table she’s got no notion that dark coffee will scold her own mouth, but she moves the cup away from you, ”careful so he doesn’t burn himself.”
Suddenly, her language returns, her voice is the voice of the woman who has been hiding in the back of her heart since the turn of the decade.
She has held so many children safe in her arms, cured the scrapes of playground battles and lulled sobbing nightmares to sleep with lullabies she can’t recall ever knowing.
But holding you in hands that have held rationing cards – knitting needles – dried apple slices and one way tickets – the lady in the back of her heart breaks the surface of forgotten memories, takes a big gulp of air and looks at the world with her own eyes once more.
Du har sett 90 dager komme og gå, du har følt solnedgangen og støvet legge seg over tre måneder. Hun som holder deg har hatt krigens dager i lungene, og der minnene hennes nå har blitt røyksignaler hun ikke klarer å tolke lenger, har hun det fortsatt i henda; hvordan hun skal holde deg så du ikke faller, hvordan verne deg fra en verden hun allerede har utfordret, bekjempet og glemt.
Hun vet ikke lenger at kaffen, den er varm, at den brenner alt den kommer borti om du lar den, men hun flytter raskt koppen vekk fra deg. «Forsiktig,» sier hun, «så han ikke brenner seg.»
Der stillheten har rådet, er plutselig språket hennes tilbake. Nå er stemmen hennes stemmen til kvinnen som har gjemt seg bort på bakerste rad i ryggmargen hennes de siste ti årene.
Hun har holdt så mange barn trygge i sterke armer, vært Akela for gater fulle av nabo-unger, kurert de falne etter utallige slag for lekeplassen, og vugget gråtende mareritt i søvn med godnattsanger hun ikke lenger kan huske å ha glemt.
Men der hun holder deg, holder deg trygt og hardt og samtidig så forsiktig, i hender som har knuget rasjoneringskort, manøvrert strikkepinner, lurt unna tørkede epleskiver og ikke sluppet taket i enveisbilletten til ei ukjent framtid, da kommer hun fram, damen fra bakerste rad i ryggmargen.
Hun bryter overflaten der røyksignalene ligger tjukt. Hun legger hodet bakover, puster krigen ut av lungene, og for første gangen på så veldig lenge, ser hun med egne øyne på en verden hun trodde hun hadde glemt.
Writings and Musings 