Reclaiming what never was ...

Crippled hands fumble with the wall switch.

Light floods the bathroom.  

Day is beginning.

A brush moves slowly through curly brown hair that existed more than sixty-five years ago. I study the mirror as shiny curves fall gently around teenage shoulders.         

Too soon the beautiful image fades.  Gray reality seeps around the edges.  

I scoff at my faulty memory.   My hair was once brown all right, but it never curled on its own.   Each night before bedtime,  I twisted a thousand limp strands around my finger and anchored them securely with bobby pins.  Each morning I removed the pins and brushed a riot of curls into submission.  On good days I looked like Jane Russell.  Bad days,  I was orphan Annie. 

Leaving the bathroon, steadying myself against friendly walls and sturdy furniture, I make my way to the front window and open the blinds. 

Children are playing hop-scotch on the front sidewalk.    Karen is drawing squares with blue chalk.  I hope it will wash off with the garden hose.   Neighbors may not appreciate that particular shade of blue.   Carmen is riding an imaginary horse across the front lawn, making whinnying noises and tossing her ponytail.   Honey Gail is picking jonquils from the row I so carefully planted more than 40 years ago.   

Too soon the children disappear, taking the sidewalk with them and I'm left to stare at the parking lot in front of our apartment.

Emptiness seeps into my heart.

Did the blue chalk, the jonquils and the neighing of a frisky horse ever really exist?    Or are they - like naturally curly hair - only products of a faulty memory?





Email:   MelindaGerner@yahoo.com