memories.
I just spent the last hour and a half talking to like...a huge missing link from my childhood. Generally, when people from my past track me down I don't have anything to say to them because I don't really care but this girl was most of my childhood. It's so strange for me to think about because Kim and Alli are my best friends and they always have been and our parents always have been, except not. There was that void, grades 1 - 5, and she was there and now I'm trying to do my physics homework but all of these memories keep pushing past the formulas for speed and acceleration and etc.
This probably sounds extemely idiodic, but I'm very into memory lately. It kind of plays a big part in writing non-fiction, and we've been talking a lot about memory in my writers in print/in person class. But...don't you ever just sit down and remember? I mean really re-member and re-assemble your past. It's really incredible how much comes back to you.
Her parents were famous opera singers from Bulgaria and Germany and they'd always be travelling to perform. They had a huge walk-in closet in their bedroom that overflowed with costumes and the most amazing clothing from all over the world. Her mother had platinum blonde hair which she'd always braid and she wouldn't let us drink caffeine or eat foods with BHT in them. For dinner, there would be some sort of pasta in a red sauce and they only drank whole milk or water. Never did a night pass without her father complimenting her mother on how delicious everything was. She passed away three summers ago - I would have liked to have seen her again. Meals were always eaten in the dining room, with the record player in the corner, and we would have to ask to be excused. They put ketchup and and cheese in my eggs in the morning and I would borrow a dress to go to church with them on Sundays.
Her basement was very old-looking - dusty lace hung off of surfaces and couches were worn and musty. Everything we'd watch was either directed by Mel Brooks a tape of a Russian ballet. Her brother would yell up, reassuring her mother as she stuck her head in from the upstairs that we wouldn't watch anything rated R, and then put in "History of the World: Part I" when she disappeared behind the closed basement door. An Aida poster hung on the wall, across from the bed where we sat as her dad told us the story of Samson and Delilah no matter how often we asked. He is a professor at McGill now.
We would walk down Canal to the tiniest farm, carrots and apples in hand for feeding the horses and a goat.
Climbing through the small parting of the gate blocking the dead end of her street took you into the most beautiful pine needle forest. Every inch of earth was blanketed in sticky white needles. It was sacred.
Once, I climbed a tree in her backyard so high that her dad had to come up to help me down because I was so scared.
During Christmastime, they'd hang a stocking for me with a small gift inside, a bottle of perfume, so I wouldn't feel left out.
She is telling me things and I am remembering.
This probably sounds extemely idiodic, but I'm very into memory lately. It kind of plays a big part in writing non-fiction, and we've been talking a lot about memory in my writers in print/in person class. But...don't you ever just sit down and remember? I mean really re-member and re-assemble your past. It's really incredible how much comes back to you.
Her parents were famous opera singers from Bulgaria and Germany and they'd always be travelling to perform. They had a huge walk-in closet in their bedroom that overflowed with costumes and the most amazing clothing from all over the world. Her mother had platinum blonde hair which she'd always braid and she wouldn't let us drink caffeine or eat foods with BHT in them. For dinner, there would be some sort of pasta in a red sauce and they only drank whole milk or water. Never did a night pass without her father complimenting her mother on how delicious everything was. She passed away three summers ago - I would have liked to have seen her again. Meals were always eaten in the dining room, with the record player in the corner, and we would have to ask to be excused. They put ketchup and and cheese in my eggs in the morning and I would borrow a dress to go to church with them on Sundays.
Her basement was very old-looking - dusty lace hung off of surfaces and couches were worn and musty. Everything we'd watch was either directed by Mel Brooks a tape of a Russian ballet. Her brother would yell up, reassuring her mother as she stuck her head in from the upstairs that we wouldn't watch anything rated R, and then put in "History of the World: Part I" when she disappeared behind the closed basement door. An Aida poster hung on the wall, across from the bed where we sat as her dad told us the story of Samson and Delilah no matter how often we asked. He is a professor at McGill now.
We would walk down Canal to the tiniest farm, carrots and apples in hand for feeding the horses and a goat.
Climbing through the small parting of the gate blocking the dead end of her street took you into the most beautiful pine needle forest. Every inch of earth was blanketed in sticky white needles. It was sacred.
Once, I climbed a tree in her backyard so high that her dad had to come up to help me down because I was so scared.
During Christmastime, they'd hang a stocking for me with a small gift inside, a bottle of perfume, so I wouldn't feel left out.
She is telling me things and I am remembering.