Memory

Memory is an odd thing; mysterious, unpredictable, unreliable. It is susceptible to errors. Facts and imagination merge. Fictitious events emerge as memories. She’s not lying, others might say, she’s just confused. “I’m not!” you may say. But can you be certain?

Much of my past is inaccessible; if not lost, then hidden, buried under the weight of time. Every so often a memory appears without warning, without my asking for it; it is just there, with a bang. I wake up in the middle of the night and see my mother’s face, looking at me, full of love and longing. We’d had an argument. “You just don’t know how I feel, you don’t even care!” “Vivian, you don’t know what a mother’s love is, you’ve never had a daughter.” My obstinacy sees only irritation on her face. 

Or, like a shy violet peeking from behind its tiny dark green foliage, a wistful memory surfaces, quietly, into my awareness. With the mind still and open in those moments before full wakefulness I might sense a tart, sweet smell mixed with wood smoke. The warm sun reaches across my bed covers and brings me a long-ago memory of my abuelita, (my Chilean grandmother) outside, stirring a large cast iron pot of quince for the membrillo we loved to eat on our morning toast.

Memories surface without apology, without intent to threaten or delight. And they don’t pretend to be of any vital significance. They just announce themselves and leave the why—if there is one—for us to figure out.

Other times we pull and pull to dislodge a past experience or even just a single word. But no matter how much effort I exert, my stubborn brain just won’t budge. I know what I’m looking for is somewhere in there deep down; it was there, once, but today, right now, I cannot get at it. That gate into my own mind is closed. Maybe it’ll open at some other time. Just let it be.

Excerpt from Living in Two Worlds: A Memoir