September CDE: Memories Wrapped in Plastic And Paper
Slow her fingers traced over the edges of the leather, now dirt stained and grey, rain spotted and worn. It had taken time to find it. Time to sneak into the wreck of the building and find her way down the cracked and unsteady stairs, around the beams and posts, over fire charred floorboards and random, sharp shards of glass.
The house was one of many that the city had found too expensive to rebuild after the 'gas line rupture.' Gas line rupture, right. With a little help with one or more well thrown grenades. Consequently? Like so many other former homes this one had been taped off, labeled unsafe and left to sink back into the earth from which it came. After that? Scavengers descended on it.
And what was left? What was buried beneath the gutted hulk of a home? Was what Anika was trying so hard to find. Like this, the photo album she rested carefully on her knees as she wiped away the ash and dirt. She'd already found some of her photos' scattered in and among the rubble. But this? This wasn't just a find. This was a treasure.
Turning the front cover, she peeled back the warped clear plastic of the pages stuck the inside leather, pulling them away one by one as best she could. Water damaged, fire damaged, and damaged by time, some of the pictures were too darkened to really see. But others?
Brilliant oranges, vivid greens, each and every post card of her collection stood on its own, the photos bright in the dim gloom. A habit she'd started as a child on trips with her father, sending home a post card to show where she'd been and what she was doing while she was there. Of course another one had been sent home as well, one for the family. But always, always a card was sent out, a memory for her to have and hold on to as she got older. All bound up in a four by six photograph with writing on the back.
The earliest ones had crayons scribbled on them, the colors on the back just as bright as the images on the front. And under the scribbling? Her father had written a few syllables for her. Dear Nika, you are seven years old. Your favorite color is yellow and your favorite toy is your toy truck and your doctor doll that one of my client's had given you. It's made of cloth and has button eyes, and a white coat. You keep trying to play with my tools and you are almost old enough to... er loves you. And you keep saying you love your truck.
Another few pages, more fire-scorched plastic. Anika took a page in her right hand, another in her left and pulled them apart, peeling back the layers to get to the next postcards. The paper ripped even as the plastic did, and the next few she postcards she looked at were ruined. A quiet hiss of disappointment issued from her lips as they turned downward in a frown.
Several pages later, each one showing less and less damage, and Anika finally came to a relatively clean portion of the photo album, undamaged by fire or water. On the front of the plastic sleeve was a photo, a whale's tail splashing as it hit the ocean surface and the words
Nantucket Whale Watch" in white letters across the top. One hand traced over the words, each letter outlined once more with the tip of a finger before Anika flipped the plastic over to read the words on the other side.
Dear Anika the postcard began. It's a great day and you're on the ocean! Too bad your brother's had to come. Aunt Jimi is here from Nigeria to visit, and she wanted to see whales so here we are. The water is cold, and so is the wind, but you got to see dolphins, and at least THREE whales and a bunch of seagulls. Lots of seagulls. But not sharks. At least not that you could tell. Aunt Jimi keeps talking about how things are done back home, and you really wish you had a book you could read right now to drown her out.
That last sentence was underlined several times in black ink, and Anika stifled a laugh, remembering her aunt's voice and how she went on and on about the boys back home who would love to come to America and meet her. Or Anika go there and meet them. Aunt Jimi was always matchmaking back then. Wait, did someone say 'back then'? She was still trying to make good matches for her relatives with 'someone from home' even now! American teenagers were too wild, too disrespectful, too violent and too 'not good enough'. Anika didn't have the heart, or perhaps the courage back then to remind her back then that there was a war going on, there was always a war going on and that teenagers back home were carrying guns and being 'violent' and 'disrespectful' as well.
Truth to tell, she'd lack the courage to argue with her aunt even now.
The next one was different; a picture of a huge tree covered in lights near where people people were skating around a wide, frozen circle of ice. Nika, guess what? ROCKET CITY MUSIC HALL! And Lucian got sick because he ate too many sausages from the hotdog vendor on the street. Derek bought a fake Rolex watch and a 'Loves New York' hat which is going to get him killed when we get back to Massachusetts. Mom and Dad have a surprise for you, but you don't get it until you get home. Merry Christmas from New York! I hope the surprise is some hiking boots and gear for me to wear for Search and Rescue. I could use new gloves. Or money for college. UMASS is a little (HAH!) expensive. The one thing I hope it's NOT is more piano lessons. I've had ENOUGH! Bye for now, Anika.
And on the side, in blue letters written along the edge were the words "Got my present, THEY
SIGNED THE PAPERWORK! I'M GOING TO THE CONGO WHEN I GRADUATE!"
There was one more postcard left in the photo album, and on the front of it was the the single card she'd written home during her time overseas with the group of Red Cross volunteers, six years earlier. She was seventeen when she left, and although she was only out of the country for a little over six months? Anika-Amadi was so much older when she returned.
On the front it showed the flag of the Republic of the Congo, the bright green, the central diagonal stripe of yellow and the bottom quarter of the flag being red. And it only had a few words on the back.
Remember Matenda. Never forget. Remember Dr Chada and Dr Carter. Remember Kisangani. Remember Dr Luka Kovac and never never forget what you're fighting for.
"I remember" the med student whispered, closing the book softly and turning to place it gingerly, almost tenderly into her pack. "I remember."
The house was one of many that the city had found too expensive to rebuild after the 'gas line rupture.' Gas line rupture, right. With a little help with one or more well thrown grenades. Consequently? Like so many other former homes this one had been taped off, labeled unsafe and left to sink back into the earth from which it came. After that? Scavengers descended on it.
And what was left? What was buried beneath the gutted hulk of a home? Was what Anika was trying so hard to find. Like this, the photo album she rested carefully on her knees as she wiped away the ash and dirt. She'd already found some of her photos' scattered in and among the rubble. But this? This wasn't just a find. This was a treasure.
Turning the front cover, she peeled back the warped clear plastic of the pages stuck the inside leather, pulling them away one by one as best she could. Water damaged, fire damaged, and damaged by time, some of the pictures were too darkened to really see. But others?
Brilliant oranges, vivid greens, each and every post card of her collection stood on its own, the photos bright in the dim gloom. A habit she'd started as a child on trips with her father, sending home a post card to show where she'd been and what she was doing while she was there. Of course another one had been sent home as well, one for the family. But always, always a card was sent out, a memory for her to have and hold on to as she got older. All bound up in a four by six photograph with writing on the back.
The earliest ones had crayons scribbled on them, the colors on the back just as bright as the images on the front. And under the scribbling? Her father had written a few syllables for her. Dear Nika, you are seven years old. Your favorite color is yellow and your favorite toy is your toy truck and your doctor doll that one of my client's had given you. It's made of cloth and has button eyes, and a white coat. You keep trying to play with my tools and you are almost old enough to... er loves you. And you keep saying you love your truck.
Another few pages, more fire-scorched plastic. Anika took a page in her right hand, another in her left and pulled them apart, peeling back the layers to get to the next postcards. The paper ripped even as the plastic did, and the next few she postcards she looked at were ruined. A quiet hiss of disappointment issued from her lips as they turned downward in a frown.
Several pages later, each one showing less and less damage, and Anika finally came to a relatively clean portion of the photo album, undamaged by fire or water. On the front of the plastic sleeve was a photo, a whale's tail splashing as it hit the ocean surface and the words
Nantucket Whale Watch" in white letters across the top. One hand traced over the words, each letter outlined once more with the tip of a finger before Anika flipped the plastic over to read the words on the other side.
Dear Anika the postcard began. It's a great day and you're on the ocean! Too bad your brother's had to come. Aunt Jimi is here from Nigeria to visit, and she wanted to see whales so here we are. The water is cold, and so is the wind, but you got to see dolphins, and at least THREE whales and a bunch of seagulls. Lots of seagulls. But not sharks. At least not that you could tell. Aunt Jimi keeps talking about how things are done back home, and you really wish you had a book you could read right now to drown her out.
That last sentence was underlined several times in black ink, and Anika stifled a laugh, remembering her aunt's voice and how she went on and on about the boys back home who would love to come to America and meet her. Or Anika go there and meet them. Aunt Jimi was always matchmaking back then. Wait, did someone say 'back then'? She was still trying to make good matches for her relatives with 'someone from home' even now! American teenagers were too wild, too disrespectful, too violent and too 'not good enough'. Anika didn't have the heart, or perhaps the courage back then to remind her back then that there was a war going on, there was always a war going on and that teenagers back home were carrying guns and being 'violent' and 'disrespectful' as well.
Truth to tell, she'd lack the courage to argue with her aunt even now.
The next one was different; a picture of a huge tree covered in lights near where people people were skating around a wide, frozen circle of ice. Nika, guess what? ROCKET CITY MUSIC HALL! And Lucian got sick because he ate too many sausages from the hotdog vendor on the street. Derek bought a fake Rolex watch and a 'Loves New York' hat which is going to get him killed when we get back to Massachusetts. Mom and Dad have a surprise for you, but you don't get it until you get home. Merry Christmas from New York! I hope the surprise is some hiking boots and gear for me to wear for Search and Rescue. I could use new gloves. Or money for college. UMASS is a little (HAH!) expensive. The one thing I hope it's NOT is more piano lessons. I've had ENOUGH! Bye for now, Anika.
And on the side, in blue letters written along the edge were the words "Got my present, THEY
SIGNED THE PAPERWORK! I'M GOING TO THE CONGO WHEN I GRADUATE!"
There was one more postcard left in the photo album, and on the front of it was the the single card she'd written home during her time overseas with the group of Red Cross volunteers, six years earlier. She was seventeen when she left, and although she was only out of the country for a little over six months? Anika-Amadi was so much older when she returned.
On the front it showed the flag of the Republic of the Congo, the bright green, the central diagonal stripe of yellow and the bottom quarter of the flag being red. And it only had a few words on the back.
Remember Matenda. Never forget. Remember Dr Chada and Dr Carter. Remember Kisangani. Remember Dr Luka Kovac and never never forget what you're fighting for.
"I remember" the med student whispered, closing the book softly and turning to place it gingerly, almost tenderly into her pack. "I remember."