I Remember

Did I mentioned I found a long-lost box of my "stuff" in the garage attic?  I did? Many times, in fact. So many times that you've lost track.  Okay then. Never mind. Here's something I found recently somewhere. I wrote it on November 18, 1997. It's called I Remember.

I remember.

I remember her standing in the doorway--the big jovial lady with no lips. "Do any of you students know how to play the piano?" she asked. I remember raising my hand enthusiastically without thinking, and then while my eagerness became the center of everyone's attention, my anxiety shook me back to reality. I couldn't play the piano. I just wanted out of Miss Ratcliff's science class.

I remember sitting on the front step of my porch one hot summer night, sobbing. "Fluffy, please, oh please, come home." I pictured him smashed, turned inside out on the highway. My mother's silhouette filled the opening in the door as she--for the third time--suggested I come to bed and continue my search tomorrow. How cold hearted. How uncaring. How could I possibly go to sleep knowing my best friend--my beloved cat--was out there somewhere possibly lost or injured or...
I remember the excitement, the giddiness, the tears as Fluffy emerged from the darkness strutting his usual strut, tail high with that confident little curve at the end, and I remember how oblivious and indifferent he acted when I scooped him up and buried my face in his soft wonderful belly. I remember going to sleep that night with an irritated cat held tightly to my chest while I experienced for the first time appreciation.

I remember the breakdown. Was it number three or four? I forget. I remember having an out-of-body experience. It wasn't really me there, watching. I remember thinking, "This is bad. I don't like this feeling." As she lie moaning and writhing the floor, I wanted to run--run as far away from her as I could. I wanted to escape this madness.

I remember the hard pew and the insistent urge to fall asleep. Then the music started. I remember seeing people coming my way and praying they weren't coming for me. I remember my relief when they stopped to pray for another lost soul as I fought to hold back the tears during the final verses of "Just as I am."

I remember the spacious backseat in the '49 Plymouth. Every Sunday night after church I would curl up and fall asleep for the thirty minute drive home. I loved sleeping in the back seat of that car. I could hear the low hum of voices in the front seat, feel the pattern of the road, and hear the steady rhythm of the engine. I never wanted it to end. I always dreaded the last seconds of my peaceful journey. I remember the moment the car began to slow down, the clicking of the turn signal, the slight acceleration up and over the sidewalk, and then the slow motion down the drive and the gravel crunching under the wheel. Yet I ignored all the signs and maintained my fetal position. I remember the open door, the blinding overhead light, the cold, the stillness, the coaxing, and most of all I remember the long agonizing walk from the backseat of that car to my bed.