Her Story

Some memories are hard to write about.  I store them meticulously on shelves and watch them accumulate dust.  Some are stored in boxes with adhesive.  Others have the lids on them without any regard to what might accumulate inside if not sealed properly.  One day I will muster enough courage to write about those memories that have formed this torso, these almond eyes, these calloused fingers, this heavy heart, this encouraging soul.  Instead I will let the stories form at the corner of my mouth like spittle after a deep sleep, saturating my pillow. I will eagerly wipe it with the back of my hand and survey the room to make sure no one has noticed. 

There are stories that must be told.  Stories that should never sit on shelves and this is why I have asked my grandmother if she will allow me to write about her childhood-the story of a triumphant girl who taught herself to read, write and solve mathematic equations after dropping out of school in the third grade to run the family business.  A woman who found ways to tell her story in the threads of her seamstress clothes.  Last night she agreed to tell her story only if I was to abandon my cowardice.  “I will tell you my story if you are strong enough to hear it.”  And for the first time I lied to my grandmother’s face declaring I was.  As she stood in the kitchen washing dishes and looking out into the nothingness of the backyard she began to tell me her story.  I quickly wrote notes in my Moleskine and was eager to hear it all in one night.  She gave me one chapter.  Ten minutes.  And then we could not press on.  As she scrubbed the last of the pots her eyes welled with tears.  I had brought my grandmother to tears.  Something I could quite possibly never forgive myself for.   But, a box has been opened and if you look closely enough the brightly adorned fabric that was gently stored inside seems to have wrinkles of imperfections neatly embedded in the threads. 

Here is to the new year and writing her story.