43 minutes ago
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Posted by Maggie May Labels: after the miscarriage
The memory distills. Memory distills. It comes out whole and is mercilessly dessicated by the infinite neurological structures of the mind. We experience, we live, and we remember, and we call this remembering 'life', but it is not. It is the art we make of life. The image that holds the emotion in one shot. The snatches of words that encapsulate the beauty. The smell that recalls the terror.
I remember like this:
Dr. Tseng ' So your tests came out just fine..it looks like you are pregnant' his face smiling wide Asian smile
Mr. Curry on the cell phone ' What? Are you serious?' the sound of my footsteps echoing in the underground parking
Swinging open the doors of my work, my smile enormous, their faces expectant
The toilet's smooth clean white face, my vomit
My mom 'Let's celebrate! Let's go to dinner'
The store's long hallways of food making me sick
Mr. Curry's hands on my stomach
Lola singing to the baby
Dakota ' Mom! Congratulations! ' he is actually happy about this baby
Ian's easy acceptance
My voice 'Watch out for my stomach'
The ultrasound, the baby, the heartbeat, Mr. Curry's hand in my hand, his eyes
The night, the dark, the bed, the pain, the blood
' Wake up honey I think I'm having a miscarriage'
The rest for Mr. Curry and I. Memories that will never be remembered exactly right, colors off, faces changing, blurring, voices too high or too low, but the distillation will capture the right temperature of our hearts, the terror in the rushing sudden breaking of Nature in my body, the experience of human life in one rapid crack of the frozen lake, when we fall in the water and simply struggle to stay aware of what is happening.
Then, the smoke of memories.
*photo, Petrina Hicks