When the Past Isn’t There

Written with the prompts: pull, how would you. . ., not sadness, more like frustration, tired of red, scent of lavender and stone, it was practice, by their silence, the past simply wasn’t there, start earlier in the morning, being happy is difficult, rug burns on your knees

Marianne woke up and the past simply wasn’t there.  The calendar started today, and indicated there would be a tomorrow, but there was no yesterday.  It was a Tuesday in April, and Marianne couldn’t remember the name of the previous day or the previous month.  She saw that ahead lay Wednesdays and Thursdays and May and June, but she had no inkling of what had come before.

Marianne didn’t feel sadness at this loss, but something more like frustration.  The strange thing was that no one else seemed aware that there was something missing.  Her daughter, her grandson, her neighbor on the east side, her neighbor across the street—they all stared at Marianne when she asked about yesterday.  She could tell by their silence that they hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.

It left her with a feeling of enormous responsibility that she was the only one left who might bear the burden of memory.  Yet it was odd.  She had no memory, but unlike anyone else, she had a memory of possessing memories.

“What is it like to have memories?” her grandson asked her.  “How would you feel?”

Marianne pulled a blanket around her feet and knees.  “Sometimes,” she mused, “a memory is like a scent.  Like the lavender bushes that used to line the garden path.  You smell the lavender and then pictures of things that happened in the past appear inside your head.  Other times memory is like a granite stone, solid and speckled in your hand.  The memory gives you knowledge, and the knowledge gives you certainty.  You know who you can rely on, and who might deceive you.  You know who will be home for supper, and who might carelessly forget to call.  You know who to trust and who can’t be trusted.”

Her grandson stared at Marianne’s folded hands.  “It sounds like being happy would be difficult.  You would be anxious all the time, waiting for your family and friends to let you down.  That doesn’t sound fun at all.”

“Well, no,” Marianne said defensively.  “It’s not about fun.  You see—“

He interrupted.  “We’re better off without memories!  Every day is a surprise.  We’re all eager to find out what will happen next.  I love the anticipation!  Don’t you wish you could let go of these memories?”

“But, grandson,” Marianne addressed him because she could not remember his name, “how can you plan if you can’t remember the past?”

“Plan?” he repeated in astonishment.  “How silly!  That sounds like so much work.  That’s no fun.”

Marianne persisted.  “How did you get those rug burns on your knees?  That looks painful.  Without memories, how can you protect yourself?  How can you prevent something like this—and even worse injuries?”

“Oh, grandmother,” the teen said since he didn’t seem to know her name either.  “Grandmother, you worry too much.”

With that the boy left the house, and Marianne looked out the window to watch him go.  She pushed back the curtain, and felt a stab of anxiety.  The sky was streaked with red and charcoal clouds.  She gasped in horror, though she could not remember why.  

She leaned back in her chair, pressing her eyes closed.  The red was not new; it was not sudden.  She knew this intuitively.  The red was coming, it was creeping in, it was growing.  She knew this, though she didn’t know why or how.  She felt exhausted though it was early in the day.  She knew the red was tiring out everyone.  

She stood and closed the curtains.  “Tomorrow,” she said aloud though she was the only one there, “tomorrow I must start earlier in the morning.  To practice.  I must practice remembering.”

Photo by Sam Farallon on UnSplash