I remember a lot of things, but not the sound of her voice. I remember when she took me to K-Mart and bought me a He-Man figure the weekend they came out. I can still feel his plastic muscles in my hands. I remember when she told me the truth about Santa Claus, but not what it felt like to hug her. Her laughter, her many moods; they fade. But I can remember the book of the month sci-fi hardbacks that arrived like clockwork, the army of cats we owned over the years, and the unforgettable smells they both made.
The rentals I recall, not how long we lived in each one, but I can pinpoint each one on a map. I remember the sex talk and how nervous it made her – only I can’t remember why she felt inclined to give the talk when it was too late. Did she know?
I remember the last time she used the belt on my back, that being Irish gave her a fiery temper, but not how I felt inside when she smiled and said she was proud of me. It could be I shut it all down, threw it in a dungeon somewhere dark, and then destroyed the map that would lead me back to that place. There has to be a reason why I cannot remember parts of it, only I don’t know what it is. I never thought to ask myself about it. At least not until now. Now I seriously have to know.