Tuesday, March 12, 2013


This morning,

dropping the boys off,

I saw little Christmas trees in the garbage.

These trees have been in their rooms each year since the littlest was a baby.

It's a tradition I learned from my mom. Maybe she learned it from hers?

All of us were alarmed, the truck would come soon, we had to get them out of the garbage and into the car. One of the stars was missing, where was it?

Ezra looked inside, I looked in the garbage. We couldn't find it, but at least some of it was saved.

After that, driving to work, I thought about memory. It's not myth. You do feel it in the heart, hard to breathe, like a shock of cold air. My littlest boy, already 9, was in the back seat. At what age does memory get tied up with sadness, the way it is for adults? I thought about this and I remembered how confusing it was as a child, seeing adults cry when they claimed to be happy.

Passing parked cars. A man stepped out with an artificial leg. I thought, memory is like a phantom limb.

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