Piecing Together the Memories Quietly now, in the shadows voices are speaking whose voices? and with what glittering tongue? angels perhaps? or is it the divine pieces of remembered Self? It's all coming back to me now. Little by little, light fragment by light fragment, easing into recognition. I think I have it, here, here and there. Touching there, there, and here. All I have to do is listen. In the first place, it wasn't like that. I was not born into fear. you don't come into one life from the other carrying heavy bricks. (though others think you might.) what was it like, when so wee and without preconceptions? The lack of 'what to expect', what did I think of the 'tall children'? That I did not know, me so wee. But they had expectations of me, "you should know" I should? I did not, and felt guilt. I never questioned this 'inadequacy'. It was the first brick into a bag carried on my back. But it was heavy. The long walk to school, what was this journey for? The other children looked so tall and undoubtedly knew what they should. We lined up, waiting for what I did not know. Fear then waited in the corner, in the hat rack, under the shoe trod wood. Then it was every wide eye to the teacher. We were under her power now. I followed her lead, uncertainty ever near. Then back home, I found uncertainty had followed me, How cold the porch was, how my hands slipped when finding the key! Chocolate pudding comforts, and warm food before, some hungers assuaged, though uncertainty was still sitting on my shoulder. All the cold of the night, me under heavy blankets, seeking the warmth, my hands seemed so small. A repetition of days. each much like the last. then two that were different. One for rest and play, and one for the meeting in the big white church. All there in itchy dresses and stiff collared shirts, and all the people pretending certainty. It was all there in the book. That book I'd better learn. And I did, and I could quote verse after verse, like some sort of odd pearls strung loosely by memory. Day after day, these rhythms stayed the same. Except for when they weren't. I didn't need to go to the big red building, and the house was decorated so pretty. "Christmas", and each colored light brought delight. Each shapely bauble, in such shiny hues, I loved each one. Secrets in boxes that would soon be mine, wonder waited until the day, After what seemed forever, 'the day' came, and every wonderful amusement mine, pockets of joy amidst the uncertainties. Soon friends and smiles, and cousins and laughter, life was getting better. Hope was in my bag, along with guilt. Long days of this rhythm, day after day, I did not question, it was what it was. Though gray uncertainty still rode my shoulder, I could not be certain of those adults. What mama did and what mama didn't, and why didn't she? and why did she? I could not be certain. I knew daddy wasn't happy. That much was certain. And everyone sided with daddy, that too was certain. I was scared, that was certain. All the loud voices and days came to an announcement like thunder. "Get your things, we're leaving!" Mama like fish hook arms waving, not catching the answer until terror arrived, all over her face. I was scared, too, but did as I was told, taking each of my small treasures into that tan car. Did all their anger come to this? It did, and I felt so helpless. I wanted gone from the scene, and I tried to forget in gramma's neat house, clean house, with the nice cooked meals and nothing still in cans. The order brought a sort of comfort to soothe out the edges of the uncertainty which had grown larger and heavier. But the bed was cleaner and warmer, and smelled better, the sheets so white. Perhaps I could order the confusion of my mind as well. My body, too, was confusing, with its changes of borders, tender roundness and monthly red oozes, it had its own order and rhythm. (Was body always like this, in lives past?) I learned I could not ask _that_ question! I was mama's doubtful child, regarded with suspicion. Just cover it over with laces and ruffles, and perfect curled hair, and maybe no one will notice. Afraid to smile at what greeted me in the mirror, that was the scariest thing of all. Who was that creature looking back, and what was she supposed to be? Everyone certainly told me what: graceful, poised, dainty, soft voiced, humble, compliant, trusting. 'Trust God', they urged, trying to soothe their own worries as much as mine. But the soothing seemed false, and I began to suspect answers could not fit into one small book, covered with its special leather covers. That beginning of suspicion, the beginning of wisdom, and something I could direct with my own mind. (The beginning of the end, to the people of the book.) I was surely bad seed of a bad mother, but perhaps I could still be saved. I wondered from what did they want to save me? Terrible world, with its wanton movie stars, and drunken singers, and broken leaders, and every vice they would not mention, sad girl-boys, and boy-girls, and 'unfortunate friendships' not to god's plan. Who was this god of theirs? I began to look closer. An angry god, suspicious of his underlings, and full of unfathomable terrors, eternal judgments and castings into fire, I had my doubts. I'd seen enough of hope to think the all-wise could not be that angry. Wisdom should be more impartial. The best man would not treat his children so, and neither would god, the father of all. He would have some other answer to his 'bad seeds'. I was beginning to suspect I was not 'bad seed'. Though certainty would wait until another day. And I could see adults were afraid of their father-god, yes tall children after all. But so much fear was everywhere and it was certainly within me. The world wide, away from familiar house, and familiar faces, away from home, I tried to find comfort in my teachings. But when they taught me ugly art, there was no comfort there. It did not need to be Gainsborough, and ever green trees, and satin dressed youths, but screaming on a bridge in the middle of nowhere was too close to home. I screamed, too, silently, my heart agape like Munch's mouth. everyone afraid, just like I was. Crashing, crashing, crashing, falling, falling, falling. Arms of home caught me, they loved me after all. I had to rebuild myself, piece by piece, and the hands that did the mending, would soon mend clothes. Days and days of mending and hemming, and seaming, making better fitting. I could put in order only small pieces of the world. But it was enough and it paid some currency. I stacked up treasures for a home of my own. Dishware, and pot ware and silverware, dreams there, too. I was now among the 'tall children' myself. Entering first lone room, that kitchen, that stove, now I was cook, and I would not eat out of cans! I learned the secret of the sauce, and threw noodles on the wall, stickier truths would follow. But I would be ready for them, for carried hope was large indeed. I would handle each puzzle, piece by piece, the job of each day. - Joan Lansberry - © 2009

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