Nail prints in my forearm.
That's the image that first comes to mind when I think of my mom.
There follow a cascade of other images I associate with her: chocolate strings in a freshly torn cookie, mismatch patches sewn onto faded stuffed animals, a box of tampax nestled against my pillow, a tsk-tsk look and a pinch of my belly fat, seeing her in a short skirt and perfume, inexplicably giddy before a long K-mart run, laughter in front of old M*A*S*H and Hogan's Heroes reruns.
But her love marks in my arm: the perfect crescents, sometimes just barely drawing blood, always leaving little bits of broken skin. I can't remember any specific reasons why she did this. I'm sure there was screaming, but I can't remember that either. But what bothers me the most is that I have no arm to look down at, no fingernails to press gently into my own flesh, to help me feel, to help me remember.
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What an odd, yet painful thing to remember, out of all the memories that must comprise your past life, it's this one that makes it through.
ReplyDeleteOr is this just simply one out of a barrage of memories that you've chosen to share?
It's like playing that word association game. It was the first to come through, and I was surprised.
ReplyDeleteAnd Klio, welcome to my life! It's good to know someone's listening...
ReplyDelete