Stories tagged memory

The Listener

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They think because you are a writer you are not much of a listener and so you begin to recognize all of the great opportunities to be much more of a listener and then you shut your trap and get sucked into the whorls of her big wet brown eyes with Italianate…

Empty Space

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The house was empty now - silent. Each room was filled with air too thin to sustain memory. She stood, absorbing the emptiness, addding it to her own. Her footsteps were hesitant, reluctant to disturb the silence. She walked into her old bedroom - so…

Rooms

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I have a memory of rooms I never leave but have invisible walls. These are rooms I never leave, these are rooms where I exist but don't live. These are rooms where it is dark but I know they can see everything. They can even see inside of me—even my heart beating…

Memory Box

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Soft voices in private, in the street, city noise violence disappears she blinks her eyelids and I can hear the lashes intertwine and pull clear.

Saw Her

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Just like that. He heard her words clearly from the top floor of the five story apartment building. The unexpected change in weather made it mandatory for him to open his window.

A Ghost is Born

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She wasn't a strong presence but she moved in and out...

A Momentary Lapse

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She picked the perfect white wine that she poured in the carafe early to give it ample time to breathe before the guests arrived. She thought of everything. The first course would be Asian Carrot-Ginger soup with black sesame seeds and diced green onion

Old Flame

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The receiving line stretched into the lobby of the funeral home, which was decorated with faded Waverly wallpaper, dirty lemon yellow carpeting, and the kind of ornate white furniture I used to want in my bedroom when I was a little girl. The people in th

What I Remember

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“She’s in shock,” I heard my mom say, so I assume Jill must have asked how I was or why I wasn’t crying. I did not want to talk to anyone or have anyone talk about me, so I just watched the trees go by as we drove back home.

What Memory Holds

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There's this sepia-toned photograph, which my mother gave me, of my brother and me when we were still both youngsters. In the picture my brother's dressed in a skimpy checked suit whose sleeves were already too short for him — on its way to becoming my

The Movement of Strings

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He lies in bed for hours every night, thinking, until finally he falls asleep and finds himself sitting on a cracked wooden stool behind the curtain at somebody's club. Fender Strat slung at his waist. He stares ahead, face unmoving, chain-smoking Camels, waiting. Long…

Pie

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Some folks say your hands can tell the story of your life. Well, my hands cain't talk, but they've made so many pies, I bet they could do it themselves if you cut 'em off and gave 'em the right ingredients, I sure do.

Almost There

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...children live in the moment like no one else. Which is a good lesson for us all, especially when crossing an ocean. Because out here you are alone with the rhythm of your thoughts and the ghosts of your past.

Latitude Adjustment

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Down South now means August cold snap, the forties roaring my wool cap off my head.

Routine

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She could live there forever, in that smokey memory...