Fragment

A Micro-fiction Monologue

Photo by Matt Artz on Unsplash

I don’t remember being brave. — I don’t remember much of anything — memories sift through my fingertips and stick to the backs of my knees. Unable to hold on to my past — the feelings too big to be contained. I have no room for them, my mind cluttered with so many memories that I don’t want to keep, that I would just as soon forget.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid. Although sometimes late at night, in the dark, a happy memory will shoulder its way in, claiming its space, making sure it’s not forgotten. A memory so bright it blinds.

Tiny fingers reaching through crib slats, intent on holding my hand; whispers and humming and the back-and-forth creak of an old rocker. Soft sighs and soft skin and thinking there was nothing more beautiful in the world than a baby’s cheek pressed against my shoulder and a small hand curled around my neck.

When did my children get so big? When did they decide they didn’t need me? They slipped away, and I can’t remember the when or how. My memories betray me; everything jumbled. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Today.

I remember red sneakers and shoelaces flapping as the pavement sped by under my feet. Faster and faster. As long as I never looked up, just concentrated on my feet, poured my energy into the sidewalk, I flew. What happened to that girl? I…