Memory Bank

Memory Bank

Boom! Her body jolted up from a straight line. Now gasping for air. She found herself alone, again. Imagining herself as nothing more than the page number seated in the corner of a filled room. Constantly passed by or randomly placed in the darkness underneath a folded blanket that marked the place where sound ceased. A strange feeling greeted her that she would later label as cold, vulnerable, and open like a lung waiting for the first intake of air. But this time was different. The sun had set. She sat there contemplating how the dynamics of her relationships would change and then she rested in peace.

Days had drifted by and the house began to settle into slowly distancing creaks. A U-Haul truck made its presence in the driveway. Had she planned on moving and did not remember? Hmmm. She sat quietly like a comma, waiting. Just waiting. Pondering all too familiar scenarios. How could this be, she had been there her whole life? Faint whispers drew nigh outside her window and she stood in the stillness with her mind running. Vivid colors now lit up like the Vegas Strip causing her to fall into a space somewhere below. Caught!

She was caught between two walls; no four, enclosed in a room. Strapped in the stillness of invisible bars right before her last period. Will she make it to the bank to make a deposit before they close for the day? She laid there recalling memories of the day she was born, being held for the first time, and being carried so gently in the hands of the one who gave her life. Heart racing: traveling down streets she never knew the names of but had landmarked how to survive them. She could feel distant chatters lingering near like a shadowed Siamese twin. Gazing around at bare walls and covered mirrors that stood before her as she sang Stevie Wonder’s lyrics, “very superstitious writings on the wall.” She paused as if there was something there, someone there, enclosed behind the cloudlike reflection. Reaching now, to unstick a layer of paper from the mirror, she was overtaken by sudden flashbacks: memories of unwrapping unknown gifts underneath the Christmas tree, removing the plastic from around a red and white peppermint that her grandmother gave her, freeing her pigtails from rubber bands, and of how her first journal, a small black book held so much of her life. The strip fell to the floor and for the first time, she could taste; no see. Smell. Embrace. Hear, and notice someone was there. She was not gone after all.

She was small, black, and full of unturned pages. It had been her own thoughts, dreams, and experiences that had chased her down to rekindle a lost love. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. The same sound that had awakened her now stood at the front door. She held her breath with wonder. The driver of the U-Haul was knocking. She could hear keys jingling to a stop and then the sound of the unlocking door. Slowly, the door crept open with a little squeak that welcomed a full presence. He stepped over the threshold and stood there basking. His head was bowed, eyes closed, and the beat of his heart subtly rocked him.

Boom! She heard it again. This time it was deeper with untimed rhythms. Listening carefully, she realized, it was the sound of a longing heart. Gracefully, she waited for him to find her. He inhaled deeply. Then made his way to sit down in his favorite brown recliner seat that his mom used to rock him in as a child. He reclined back and heard a muffled boom like something had hit the floor. Puzzled by the sound, he sat up and looked underneath the chair. There was just enough crack in the curtains for light to illuminate what fell. It was the mysterious small black book that his mother read stories from. At least that’s what she called it. He opened the front cover and tears began to fall from his eyes as he could once again hear his mother’s voice. They had spoken every day after he moved away, and they never ran out of things to say.

She had known the day would come. The day when he called and her answering machine would pick up. This day was a week ago. He recalled the severe ache of his heart at every ring that went by, without her cheer filled, “Hey son, I was just thinking about you.” The answering machine clicked on a recorded greeting that said, “Hey son, I was just thinking about you. I know that this is the first time you heard this greeting. I am sorry. It would have only ever been once. However, I left you the best parts of me to carry with you. I love you so much. He leaned back in the recliner and randomly started reading his mother’s journal. She penned, “Today I opened my son’s first bank account. I read to him parts of my story from the mysterious small black book and made many deposits of love, lessons, and wisdom.” He remembered the day as if it were yesterday and chuckled. Every evening before bed she would call him from his room as say, “Son, I need to make a deposit.” Today was no different. A piece of paper fell from the black book that read, “I need to make a deposit, last entry.” With a blushing grin, he replied, “I’ll take you to the bank right now mom.” After turning to the last entry, to his surprise, it was a deposit slip receipt with his name, account number, today’s date, and a memo that read, “Son, I was just thinking about you. This is for the next small black book, love mom.” She, my mother, had recently passed away and left me the house, and the richness of her voice captured in this “mysterious” small black book. A clever woman that still managed to surprise me every day of my life. Always outdoing the last gift, this time she mysteriously deposited 20,000 dollars into my account. A deposit that would continue our family’s history and legacy through journaling in these mysterious small black books. He rocked gently back and forth, smiling, as he felt stitches mending scattered pieces of himself.

Today he was moving into the house that his mother left for him. Sitting in the chair where she held and read him so many stories from that small black book. He glanced at the time knowing the bank will soon be closing for the day. Nestling warmly, inside memories bank; both doors closing on lids and book, he slowly inhaled deeply with his black book at heart. Boom! Resting. Boom! Breathing. Boom! Us.