Memory in the Metronome

The therapist's room was just as you'd expect it. An oak desk scattered with pens, paper, and paperweights. Windows abandoned by the daylight. Amber lamps and weak bulbs conjured shadows upon strange paintings that invoked nothing. An hourglass failed to create ambience against the noise of sirens and horns.

Yet, I could hear every grain of sand drop, like sugar gone sour. As I sat there, drowning out the humming, I began gnawing away at the skin around my fingernails. My heart palpitated. The sound of sand grew louder. It was as if I had swallowed a pendulum whole, and it was straining its way back up my throat.

"Would you like some water?" the therapist asked.

Was it really that obvious? My ears felt like they were swelling with fluid. But it did nothing to hinder the sound of sand that cut through liquid like yellow glass. Suddenly, I recalled the lake our parents used to take us to.

Why did we stop going? Pulsating, my mind flooded with images of ripples, frogs and wooden bridges. Yellow-stoned paths, cow fields and dragonflies. A distorted splash and then...

Nothing.

"Yes, please."

I wanted the sand to swallow me whole. It was already consuming me from within. The water was cool, but not cool enough. It did nothing to soothe the beige congestion. I wish I could have said the same for my tired eyes, however. Stubborn tears refused to claim my flustered cheeks, yet still blurred my vision of the patient therapist.

I tossed and turned in the discomfort of my solitude on that horrible blue sofa. Forever spinning on the wheel of misfortune, never resolving that feeling of guilt.

Half of the sand had dropped before I remembered

"The park," I said aloud.

"The park?"

"The park my parents would take us to. The one near the lake." The therapist began scribbling as they do, and I continued.

"The sand pit. My mum hated it when we played in the sandpit; it would take days for the grains to disappear from the soles of our shoes. It was a well-worn park. Decorated with faded woodland creatures, like squirrels, foxes and hedgehogs. Sitting atop mushroom stools and log piles. The bark held the smell of the rain and released it on hot days. And on those days, you could hear people splashing, laughing, swinging and playing."

"What did you like about the sandpit?" he asked.

"I liked how soft it felt between your fingers, the way the grains would slip through. I guess I just stopped playing in sandpits because I grew up, as most of us do."

I knew he didn't appreciate my sarcasm. He knew I was avoiding parts of my memory I would rather not inspect. To reminisce about a past I had forgotten. Yet, the absence bothered me as much as I know it bothered him. It was a competition to see who got there first.

"You mentioned a lake."

"Yes."

"Would you like to tell me about the lake?" He asked, holding onto his pen in anticipation.

"There's a pond where we used to collect tadpoles. We would hold them in our nets and then release them. I remember wearing my bucket hat with the daisy on the front. The little red dress to match."

"Is the pond the lake you refer to?"

"No. The pond is next to the lake. Separated by weeds and lily pads."

"And what of the ducks? Swans, geese? Are they on the other side of the frog pond?"

"Yes, of course."

I had forgotten about the swans and their ugly ducklings. Chatting among one another, while Dad remained cool, calm, and collected.

And then...

"The buoys. Those amber-stained buoys. They were everywhere." I blurted out. I followed that up with.

"There was one by the wooden bridge with the waterfall."

"We used to take off our shoes and socks and roll up our jeans to our knees. Cup our hands together to hold the fast-flowing water in our palms. Not that we ever could."

"Who is 'we'?"

"My parents."

"Okay, so your parents. When they took you to the lake, what did you do?"

"We wanted to go to the island."

"The island? In the middle of the lake, I'm assuming."

"Yes, it's where the ducks lived. It was covered in tall trees with overlapping branches, weaving in and out of each other. It looked like the perfect place to keep a secret."

"A secret?"

"I don't remember."

"Did you ever get to the island?"

I remember the island. The ducks. The branches, the water. My sister and I-

My sister... I had a sister.

Suddenly, the sound ceased, and all that I was left with was the sound of my own beating heart.

"Mary? I'm sorry, but we've run out of time. We can pick this up next week? Same time as always? Mary?"

"When did you get that hourglass?"

"What?"

"The hourglass. When did you get it?"

"It was a gift. Maybe this is something we can focus on next week?"

"I don't think I'll be coming back next week."

"Why?"

"I remember."

We found the boat. We pushed off, laughing, paddling toward the land of trees. The water was colder than I remembered. The boat rocked once, then again and again...

The metronome turned, and the sand fell, but I wasn't sure if it was mine...

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