Wednesday 14 January 2009

A gentle breeze, she strokes my fever hot cheeks and forehead to soothe.

I was in a conversation with Himself, sharing abit of how it was like growing up. There is very little memory of being happy. I can only just about recall the bad ones, being terrified and being as quiet as a mouse. One of the "happy" times was when we had house parties. I recall my father with long hair and my mother with long, flowy dresses to match her tresses. Preparations would start early with mom getting all the glasses, crockery, cutlery, what-have-yous ready. I can't remember what I would do. I just remember being amongst adult and being cute. *shrug* what's a kid to do?

Himself asked to bring photos recording the moments and I told mom. She took out my album. We each have our own albums. Mine was the biggest, with picture of a girl, carrying ducks in a wheelbarrow on the cover. There were so many photos smiling photos that I can't remember. Mom started going through one by one, telling me the stories behind each photo - who bought or made my clothes, whose place it was, what had happened, etc. She could remember so much. Her stories were peppered with "do you remember...." "you don't remember,.....".

Pictures of their friends - I wonder what's happened with them all. I assume they all got married and have their own kids, etc - I never did see them again - or if I did, it seems to be lost in my labyrinth of memories. Mom even remembers my friends. The only person I've kept up with is my best friend - the rest, I'm not interested in. I do think of how so and so is doing but there's really nothing to anchor me to the past of that memory. They left me with a bitter taste in my mouth and I honestly wish that they get a taste of their own medicine that I was forced to swallow.

Mom says that she keeps the photographs so that she can one day show our kids how we were like growing up. "I keep them so you can show your kids", says she. But who will tell the stories behind them? I can't remember and most of what is recorded in my memory is the harshness of those times. Do I really want to tell my kids my memories? Or should I record her words and play it back? The ghost of happier times.

Today is her birthday. Today she is a year older. There will come a point when she will stop being a year older as her breath becomes still and the deep freeze will never have a chance to thaw.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Petal P. Rose

Thursday 1 January 2009

Never

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned

my life into one long night seven times sealed.

Never shall I forget that smoke.

Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose

bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.

Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith for-

ever.

Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me

for all eternity of the desire to live.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God

and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.

Never shall I forget those things, even where I condemned to

live as long as God Himself.

Never.

- extracted from "Night" by Elie Wiesel

In memory.

Petal P. Rose