I try to conjure something from memory that enables me to feel connected directly to them, as though they were here but I am unable, so I keep things. Things, it is said, will not make you happy but they are memories, memories that when applied during contemplation evoke sensory experiences of past lives. A smile forms at the touch of the cold metal of her brooch, the rough surface is pearlised and I need not open my eyes to see it, I have looked upon it many times and can recall it perfectly, but each time the distance is greater and the ability of the artefact lessens somehow. These things have gone through a life with me, from house to house, city to city, at the first experiences of touching them and looking I wept. After this I was wondering on their importance and my inability to part with them, but this is obvious.
Clearly remembering actual days is limited to unusual or special occasions, the memories are incomplete, imperfect, so filling in the gaps leaves them ripe for idealisation. These snippets can sometimes give inspiration, there are many blank spaces, like the back of car on the way home, the footwells dark in front of me pools of light every few seconds sweep across my face. Dave was driving but I don’t remember where from, to or why, just that is was quiet, the engine a lullaby and my blue skirt.
