They say memory is like a sieve. If that is true, then mine is empty, nothing to sift through. You are an idea, a silhouette. Not empty, not absent, but shrouded in mystery or perhaps buried by time. I never met you, yet we are bonded. I am yours, and you are still somehow mine. It is odd — this one sided exploration. I feel strange trying to uncover and examine what was once yours. Like a foreigner, walking in the lands where you once walked first. As if I’m not entitled to your story, as if it was never meant for me to discover. I’m a nosy neighbour peeking through the blinds to see what’s the matter on the other side. But in truth, I’m no stranger. We are family. Bonded by blood and history. I once shared space with you when I was but a microscopic egg inside your daughter, inside your womb. And so I must ask, I must know, just a little more about you. Who were you? What were you like? Would you have liked me? Would you have been excited to know your daughter has a child?
These questions churn in my mind as I walk the path you must have walked into the park. A generous bend through the trees on a slight incline. A soft chirp draws my attention to the foliage. And there nestled between some branches is the outline of a robin or finch or some other small species — I’m not a woman who watches birds so I don’t know for sure. Were you? I don’t remember hearing that’s true. You loved roses. I know that for sure. The classic shape and romantic colours. You liked the smell, no doubt. The way they reach towards the sun elegantly, unfolding like a letter. Like there is a confession hidden within their petals. You liked their secrets. How they carry a warning not to be touched. Did you wish you were a rose? I do sometimes. I wish to be left alone. This thought stings my eyes as if a thorn has grown in behind.
I continue along the path, eyes fixed on the sky which is blue today, clear and monotone. Nothing to cloud the skyline. Nothing to block the sunshine. Nothing to trap the warmth. My breath fogs in front of me. I notice the tips of the mountain tops. Each with a dusting of snow. Did you like the cold? I remember being told you didn’t. It was the ice on the road that struck fear in your heart. If something were to happen, how could you manage both a young child and broken car? No. The cold wouldn’t do. Your skin was made for warmth. The kind of brown that glows beneath the sun, and devours the heat. A richness that doesn’t burn. So how would you stay warm in the winter? A scarf, a toque, or gloves? Would you warm your hands with your breath? I flex mine and rub them together in an attempt to create heat. It is so very cold today. I wish it were warmer. Then I may not notice the absence. Then my hands wouldn’t be so icy inside my pockets and my breath wouldn’t shudder.
I see the conservatory. A nostalgic image even though I can count on my hands how many times I’ve seen it. It’s the mountains maybe. The trees below and to each side. It’s how the city stretches out like an ocean. The sun glinting off the glass and metal as if they were waves. As if they were about to rise and break. How the buildings and towers seem to cascade from this angle. Seeing it from above like you’re on your way to heaven. How is the view from up there? What do I look like right now? It’s just me and my long coat — a long coat you may have liked. I will never know what you might say. But I remember the pictures. Ah, that’s what it is. This nostalgia, printed into freezed frames. Were they black and white? No. I go back into my mind and see it again. The colour of your dress. White and pink stripes. A red cardigan. The curve of your face, the placement of your hand. This wall — not even three feet tall, you sat. Knees together, body at an angle, a pose you might be asked to assume for school photos. There is a child to your left.
I sit at the bench facing the wall. Facing the liquid city and solid mountains and hazy memories. These memories aren’t my own. Just stories really. I sit with these stories, playing out inside my head. Where you walked, what you felt, what you said. It’s odd to be here, where you once were. To sit mere feet away from where this story took place. Where you set up the photo, urging your child to smile. What did you sound like? Was your voice soft? Was it rough with exhaustion or quiet with thought? Did you talk to yourself, as I do? A dialogue inside your head? Can you hear mine right now? Can you hear me trying desperately to tease it all out. To poke and dig and prod. To not know where to search and not know what I hope to find. To sift through a purse that doesn’t belong to me. To reach and grasp at emptiness, at memories that aren’t my own. I spin and toss and turn this story over in my mind. The smell of roses. A piece of your hair catches the wind. You tuck it behind your ear. A laugh. Your brown eyes glimmering in the sun. The strength of your hands. I invent details that are not anyone’s but my own. I make this story mine. In another life, I was you and you were me. In another life, you had more time.
I’m quiet in my sitting and staring and pondering. It is like a meditation for me. I am not here nor there — I’m in between. My mind conjures up images from another time. I picture the sound of your shoes. The voice of my mother as a child — no older than five. She hops down from the ledge and runs around you in delight. I smell your clothes, like roses perhaps, or more likely the scent of spices like ginger and cardamom. I feel stupid for thinking that. Alas, it’s all I have. To my dismay, I’m pulled out of my daydreaming by my surroundings. I’ve exhausted my imagination at last. Children are running and playing behind me. I hear their little feet along the pavement. I hear their shrieks of joy, and amusement. I hear life. And I do not want to leave, this precious little seat. This opening. This leyline. This bridge to you. I do not want to forget this feeling, this familiarity that beckons unworthyness. This idea of a connection that I do not really have. I’m an imposter. Will never be a true grand-daughter. My heart throbs at that. No. Here we are. You and me, with a ravine of time between us. But we are more alike than we are different. I am but a concept to you, an idea never realized, never beheld by your eyes. And you are but a concept to me, an idea never realized, a life I never witnessed.
I ache in this emptiness. My empty mind and empty hands. And how desperately I wish I had something of yours. Anything. A charm, a ring, a pendant, at least. Something to hold onto to know you existed. That you were real. That you felt and loved and wanted. Something to know that I’m an heir to your history. That I can still be part of your legacy. That it’s not too late. Something to remember you by. A token. A keepsake. An heirloom. To turn over in my hands as to not feel so adrift. To ground me again. To hold something you once held before. To have a piece of you that is mine for sure. But at the very least I have this — Queen Elizabeth park. And the parallels between my life and bits of yours that are forever fixed in photographs. As far away and distant as you seem, I know in my heart that I’m connected to you and you are unequivocally connected to me.
Happy birthday, Nani.