memory - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
One moment there was ground under my the wheels of my bicycle, dark ground yet to feel the kiss of the light of dawn, then there was water. Then, in a moment that felt so stretched... I sank beneath the cold surface, arms dragging along the bottom of the canal. I stood, the water waist deep. Then, to my surprise, what I heard was my own laughter. Apparently I found is so deeply funny to be standing in the canal completely soaked. I grabbed my bike and lifted it to the path, pulling myself out after it. Then I laughed again. Between the water, the mud and the laughter... it has become a favourite memory...
I choose the most perfect memory of my father and cling to it. I choose it because in that moment he was the person he should have been, would have been, had it not been for the stress of life. In that snapshot his unwarped personality was something so golden and sacred I want to keep it forever. Like an old movie reel I can play it at will, 1979, on the back lawn of our old house. He's laughing, relaxed after mowing the lawn. He asks me if I want an aeroplane ride and of course I do, what four year old doesn't? In moments he has my right wrist and ankle. He spins like a shot-putter, but he never lets go. The garden turns into a green blur, I'm flying- flying until he can spin no more. The memory has no smells or weather, other than a lack of rain. The garden is in fine detail: the crab apple tree, the rhododendron bush, the weeds in the flower beds. But the finest detail is his face, creased with love and my joy- not only for the ride but for being with him, for being with my Dad.
Gran turned the pen over and over like it was some kind of wand, like she'd never seen one before. Then her wizened features cracked into that old familiar grin and Fiona just knew a tale was about to unfold. She wrapped her arm into the crook of Gran's elbow and looked up at her with the same expression she wore when dessert was on the way. “Your Grandfather had a pen just like this,” she said, “it was the one we signed our marriage certificate with down at the old church. It had the same dusky blue, the same gold band, but it was new of course. I didn't see it after that; I suspect he kept in safe in one of his drawers. I wish I'd taken the time to go through it all myself. But after he passed, well, it was just stuff wasn't it?” Gran paused, taking in a heavy breath, before reasserting her smile. “But let's keep this one, what is it Fifi? A dollar?”
Sometimes the memory of him makes me sad, little brothers can get you like nothing else. Max - fiercely loyal and overprotective, like I ever needed that. Me who got leniency from the cops and him who got the full whack of the law every time. But that’s white girls and brown boys for you, equal and separate under the law. I have to stop thinking of him now. The wish for him to be here fills me with such rage and bitterness that I think I will explode. One day I will grieve for him, but first I would have to accept he is really gone - and though I dug his grave myself there’s part of me that holds the memory back. There’s part of me that will never believe he won’t come bouncing around some corner to laugh at me for falling for this elaborate joke.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
In the gardens I am greeted by the aroma of the roses. Between the neat beds of crimson bloom the fragrance is a time machine, granting me a fleeting visit to my grandfather's front yard. It was the envy of the neighbourhood in that sleepy retirement town, but how he and my grandmother loved it. To walk there was to be bathed in heady perfume. I would run between the beds, small shiny shoes over the petaled ground. In my mind it was confetti from the summer carnival and I was the princess again. The transitory evocation ends with passing strangers in loud conversation, landing me back in the present day. My shoes are dull and I no longer dream of ball gowns and princes...
It's 1982 and the Christmas tree is ridiculous. It scrapes artex from the ceiling as Dad wobbles on a ladder to hang the fairy. It truly belongs in a forest, dominating our small living room the way it does. So why is everyone grinning? Us kids are hoping from foot to foot awaiting the go ahead to hang the decorations. Packets of tinsel lie unopened on the floor, not just the snake kind, but the stuff that's loose strips too. Mom plugs in the lights and we almost explode, our fingers itching to get going. The memory of actually decorating the tree is far shorter than the time it took us to make it beautiful all those years ago; but the finished tree is like a perfect photograph. Funny how these events stay in the mind when so much else does not. But I'm glad it does, otherwise we'd just be left with the bad memories, the times our parents failed to maintain their cool, or worse. But this memory reminds me how they tried, how they did love, despite their many faults.
Innocence. Love. Happiness. Childhood. I think about that every now and then; think about the old days when I was a kid. If only now...I would feel free, unrestricted, like paper in the sky. Floating. Flying. Everything new. Nothing boring, plain or repetitive. I recall sitting in my father's lap, alongside the old fireplace we once had; his hoarse, heroic-like voice propelled me to follow in his footsteps. His path was lit by new beginnings and worlds that I never seen before. As years ticked by, memories were born, but the best memories were when I was young.
She, who could write a mile long passage from the classics and never forget a poet
The grass has that bluish tinge I associate with the seaside, it's coarse and tough, but I love it more than the tame grass of the suburban yards. I prefer the wild look, it's free, untamed. If I were a painter I'd sit with an easel and attempt to do it justice. But instead I just let it make an impression on my memory, I want to recall everything from the soft hue to the way the stalks are made stronger with their intertwined fibres.
He vaguely remembered his childhood, but his journey to Tisaia was burned in his memory like a tattoo.
Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her.
The puddles that lie dark on the tarmac are as good as those in The Magician's Nephew, but instead of transporting me to a new fantastical land, they take me back to that summer storm when Ben first told me how he felt. Those drops weren't just magical, they were divine. Each one washed away an unseen pain, a doubt, an angst. For the time our lips were locked together the world itself ceased to exist, blurred and indistinct as a wet painting left out in the torrent that fell from the dark cloud above. When we pulled back his eyes were like every fantasy I'd ever had of him, every moment I had wished could exist between the two of us. The kiss, the look, a stolen moment that could have just washed away but instead was set, colour-fast, indelible.
A memory walk is exercise for the heart and soul. One may re-live the smell of Mama’s bread being taken out of the oven, or the delight as Dad chased us kids. One can re-visit people whom we have lost. They died or moved away, but like magic, they are safe in our memories. We hear their voices, and their laughter. We remember when we won the game, and our stoic, stone-faced coach jumped up and down as he yelled and laughed. We may remember that sound of the blizzard outside and the loud popping noises as the tree limbs snapped and ripped away from the trees. A rush of fear gripped us as we heard the wind grow stronger, and it seemed that elm out front might crash and slice the roof. Remember the thought, “hope we don’t stumble, on those steps up to the platform where the college president waited to award us the prize of four long years of study, a diploma. We can remember the feeling of miracle when we held our newborn, and looked into her tiny brown eyes. Memories are piled high with reusable riches.