My mother never kept an address book. A hoarder by trade she owned at least 4, but their leaves remained pristine – white lined sheets empty of the names now forgotten.
64 years of memories are peeling away in strips, the varnished shine replaced by a chalky pallor, carefully tended finger waves collapsing flat and gray, the smell of lilies overrun by sour reminders that live with me alone.
Lest I forget as time ticks faster by, I saturate my brain with crust-less tuna fish sandwiches, neatly folded napkins, the beat of a wooden spoon against a metal bowl. The clatter of bangle bracelets and stories that lost their color a little bit more upon each telling. Maybe somewhere beneath the good works and magenta lipstick, it was known that a wan tale was better than none at all.
But there’s nothing to tie up in a pretty ribbon and call it fine. My source and nemesis both, I recall things for her that maybe are uncemented, and forgetting staked truths. Though I try hard to know the difference, the mind is a cunning opponent.
I look for evidence in the little triangles of paper left crammed in drawers. Crookedly careful marked reminders of the next birthday, baby shower, anniversary. Saved in little plastic baggies, bound for the day when the address book will rejoice in fulfilling its purpose. I hesitate to undo the garbage twisty ties – eventually I’ll come to the last and the bends marking her finger’s curves will disappear without return.
Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With “This was last her fingers did,”
Industrious until
The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then ‘t was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.
A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him,–
At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs.
- Emily Dickinson
