Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-03 22:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | raven paredes, ~plot: memories |
What: Memory
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing.
Warning, this memory contains: References to death
“Ima?” You’re sitting on the floor beside your bed in the room that is yours and Ima’s with a book over your knees. The counterpane is white and the fabric is rough: you are used to rubbing it against your cheek as you fall to sleep when Ima sits at the piano, the curls and whorls of raised fabric is comfort to you. You have the corner of it in your fingers now, and your thumb is rubbing absently against your middle finger, because your belly is yawning and it is soothing to rub and rub while you turn the pages of your book.
It’s not a new book. It is old, the words are old and there is comfort in that too. You know the ending before it comes but the light is going now. It is rosy-gold over the crack in between the pages, the dip toward the spine and there is a bug that has been flitting about the room from the crack in the shades that settles on the side of your page. You gently slide your finger alongside the book page. Carefully, Ima showed you in the park one day. It is tiny and there is so much harm you can do as a big person to something so small. She cupped your hands in hers and she showed you.
The bug crawls over the flat of your finger and it is too small for you to feel anything. It is too small for impact in this big, wide world and you feel very solemn in thinking this. You blow gently, and the bug flits toward the window screen. Your belly is empty and your foot has gone to sleep from sitting through the afternoon and you want food and you want Ima both.
The apartment is very quiet, but you know this isn’t different to usual. Ima used to play in the afternoons, but she doesn’t often now. You play, and she watches and you think of doing it now, perhaps when she wakes. The rug beneath your feet is worn and your soles are bare. Everything in this apartment is in its place. Everything has a place and it is comfort, the same way the counterpane is comfort. You know each inch of this apartment and Ima showed you how to keep it exactly the way it has been. There is no dust, the smell is of the candles Ima lights in the window in the evenings, vanilla. You asked once, ‘why, Ima?’ and saw her smile. It is a slow smile, that begins in the corner of her mouth and widens like sunshine.
‘Because it is friendly, to look up and see lights in the window. Candles are friendly, petit. I like to think of the people outside who see our window and think of it.’ The flames dance like smiles at night, you have sat there and watched a wick burn itself to nothing before, as Ima sleeps.
She is too still. She is very still. You feel fear crawl up your spine like ants as you look toward her lying on the couch. You don’t know why you’re scared, but you’re scared. It is often, but her head turns towards you as you’re leaning on the door handle, because if Ima is asleep, you do not disturb. The air in here smells not of vanilla at all, it is sweet and sweat and a present smell that is always here that you’re too young to recognize.
Ima’s mouth smiles. It is slow bloom when she sees you. It is not as pretty as it was, because of the mottling, the dark red splotches that look like spilled paint on the cream of her cheeks. She is beautiful, you think this without questioning and when she beckons, the movement is very small, like mice. It is slow, and you slide down to your knees beside the couch for her to kiss the top of your head.
“Hello, sunshine,” her voice is small these days. You can remember her voice like a bird above the piano, but it is not a bird anymore. It is slow, and she swallows twice before she says anything again. You say nothing. You say nothing at all, you wait in the space between words. She swallows, and her fingers catch on yours, hers are hot and dry like paper, thin as twigs.
“What is it?” You want badly to do anything. When it is like this, you want to be a knight or a soldier or a prince from the books Ima used to read and to know the answer. Ima’s face holds her smile like a light gradually turned down dim. She kisses your forehead and when she squeezes your fingers, her cheeks are wet.
“I want some tea, sunshine. Would you get me some tea?” You feel the thud of your heart against your rib-cage, relief. You know how to make tea. You can get her tea. If you get her tea, she will smile again. You move, your knees scrape the carpet and she shakes her head.
“With lemon. I would like lemon and we don’t have any.” You know this. The grocery list is stuck to the front of the fridge, with the money Ima keeps. You haven’t gone for a couple days but today is not a money day. You look at Ima, the wet on her cheeks and her smile sparkles.
“In my wallet,” you know where Ima’s bag is, and her wallet. You know where everything is in this apartment. You know the way, “Please sunshine, I have been dreaming about that tea.”
You can be a knight. You can be a prince in armor, it is lemon and that’s the easiest quest you ever heard of. You pull away and Ima catches your palm with her fingers and holds you still and she presses a kiss into your palm as if it were something you could take with you.
“Remember the keys.” She slides under the blanket, settles back against the cushions and you pick up the bag from the kitchen counter, slide out Ima’s wallet and push it into your own pocket. It is too big to fit properly, even if you jam it, and by the time you’ve figured out how to slide it in, Ima is half-asleep.
You are careful with the door. You don’t let it slam. The light in the hallway is flickering again, the bulb needs to be changed but you are careful, you know the way down. There is loud shouting beyond one of the doors, Mr. Harrison is home and you hear the noise of a TV to your right as you wind your way down the stairs, your fingers trailing on the rail. You don’t bother with the elevator. It will be broken. It’s always broken.
The street outside is cool. The air smells like dry-cleaning and hot-dogs and the lights are coming on. Your jacket is too small, you can feel the air lick around your wrists but it is red, and it has a hood and toggles and Ima picked it out of the racks the last time it was cold. You’re playing with the toggles now, Ima’s wallet heavy against your leg.
The streets to the grocery store you memorized. You know the way there and you know the way back, it’s two crossings of the road and four blocks total and the light of the store is yellow outside. The door bleeps when you step on the mat and the woman at the counter where they sell the cigarettes looks up.
“Hi, honey. Back again?” You nod. Sometimes, the woman sneaks you candy, Hershey’s kisses, fat and shiny and silver. Sometimes you eat them, on the street outside, sticky and sweet and a rush of saliva in your mouth and sometimes you carry them home to Ima, who used to like the kind of chocolate wrapped in gold paper, with French written on the front.
You drift through the aisles. There is music piping, a song you know well enough to hum and you hum it now. You pick through the box of lemons, to look for the best one. Waxy-yellow and fat and round and when you find one, you pick it out and carry it up to the counter. The woman is gone, and there is a man in her place.
“You’re awful small to be out alone, aren’t you?” He’s new. You know this, because everyone else knows you. You smile, and you hold out the dollar bill for your lemon.
“I’m seven,” you have been seven five weeks and two days. You’re seven and you know this store and the ones in between. The man looks at you but he hands you your change and he gives you your lemon in a plastic bag. It twines around your fingers as you walk back, the gush of traffic past you and the hum of the street-lights.
Your hands are too full to be quiet with the door. You catch it with your foot so it doesn’t slam, and “Ima?” She should be awake. You are thinking about the pasta in the cupboard, and whether there are any hot dogs left in the fridge. You could cut them up, and you swing your bag with the lemon as you walk into the living room.
“Ima?” She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She does not open her eyes. “Ima?”
She is still enough she could be sleeping, the light from outside is on her face. “Ima?” Your voice is small. It is hollow in the middle, and the ants have turned into rocks that are massing in your belly and up into your throat.
“Ima?” You hear your voice crack. She does not move. She does not turn. You drop the bag with the lemon, you rush the couch. You do not run inside anymore, Ima sleeps too much for games, but you shake her. Hard, the way you used to.
“Ima?” Your throat is hot and damp, her face blurs. She slides off the pillow and you know she should be awake, she must be awake, she should she should she should.
You climb up on the couch. You crawl into the space between Ima who is asleep, she is asleep, she is asleep and the couch cushions. You are small, and you have your shoes on the couch cushions, she will wake up to be mad about the cushions, and you curl your face into her shoulder.
You are cold, so cold that you are shaking, your teeth are juddering together and your eyes are hot and wet.