Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
by Christine Falcone
How quickly we forget the contents of old boxes, what's in those suitcases packed up in the attic, or the plastic bins from Home Dept nesting on the rafters of the garage. So much "stuff" we collect as humans. But what of the "stuff" we carry around on the inside? I bet you'd never forget your first kiss. Could tell me right here, right now, how the rainwater collected in puddles all around your family's front porch—the clearing sky and full moon reflecting in them like mirrors to the heavens. I bet you remember exactly what you were wearing, that coveted red coat borrowed from a friend, the one with the faux fur collar. I bet you can remember how warm his mouth felt on your cold cheek, then how you turned to face him, heart pounding until your young, supple lips pressed back against his. How his breath looked, white and swirling in the cold winter air, the exhale of a god, your first love.
How do we remember all these things: our first day of school; our new lunch pail and knee-high socks pulled up to the hem of our Catholic schoolgirl uniforms; the day we graduated high school, left home, got married—perhaps finalized our divorce. Where are all those ripples, those wrinkles carried in our brains? There must be folds, crevasses, caverns of collected memories, cassette tapes of the past we can pop in the VCR of our mind anytime we please, hit "play" and watch those treasured images as fresh as the hand holding this pen skip across the page of memory. These are the things we may never pack up, liquidate, ship-off to Good Will. They're ours alone and they are the things a life lived well are built upon. They are the true riches of any man or woman.
Christine Falcone remembers in Novato, CA.
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