The Teacher Speaks. . . .what exactly is memory? Except long things outstanding, which in the course of living, become shorthand of a sort. It would appear that memories should not encroach on one, especially when they are not part of the current life. But since we take on the body of choice, then we also take on the long list of grievances as well as victories of the heredity. And since we talk of heredity as the line of choice, then we must also be prepared for those untoward things that crop up within every family line.
(I will be doing a series of posts on memory. The above was the beginning of this scribe’s dictation on Memory and I am beginning with the poem Circa. . . 1840 to show how my poetry over the years proved to be the example of how much of life is remembering or learning for the first time but all are ways of obtaining information. I hope to insert questions in my readers’ thinking and do feel free to comment. Life is a Process. )
Circa: 1840
She could say in reverent tone, I love you.
I polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?
The children came, one by one.
She loved them, each and everyone.
They were good. She said, I love you.
I’ve borne you sons and
taught them how to pray.
I’ve polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?
The sons grew up and one by one
they went away. He never knew why.
He never knew that they too, said,
I’ve fed the chicks and bedded the calves
and got a perfect score in sums.
While their hearts fairly burst,
do we please thee?
He accepted the polished hearth,
the risen bread, the handsome sons
who tried so hard to please
as that which was his due.
One day the hearth no longer shone,
no longer was the bread set to rise,
no handsome sons to plead
with eyes that tore her heart apart.
‘You do not love me!’ he angrily shouted.
Wearily she turned away.
Did you not see the polished hearth,
the bread set to rise,
the sons who tried so hard to please
and love that died?’
One response to “Memories With No Putting Place. . .”
e mail from Suzanne. . . .I felt my heart squeeze in on itself as I read this, and the tears made tracks on my face. And all I could think of was….yet another wife living in quiet desperation. It seems t’was ever thus.