Quiet Mountain Essays
| Copyright © 2008 |
| Memory Jar by Betsy McPhee |
Months and years are squished together by time into a sweet jam of mashed-up memories. School
projects, summer evening games of kick-the-can, fishing expeditions, are all swirled and stirred
until each individual memory runs into the next. Yet out of the jar thick with vague
remembrances, some stand out with clarity, like bright red cherries against a blue sky, fresh and
ripe, preserved through time. I cling to the warm ones, the moments of such peace and sweetness
that I can close my eyes and be there again. I need them now.
The CT scanner encloses me like a metal coffin, whirling around me, inches from my face. I'm
being buried alive. The machine rotates, clicks and whirs. I must lie absolutely still. I can't panic.
I need this scan to help the surgeon locate the lump she will remove in a few hours. I close my eyes,
deliberately relax my tight neck muscles, slow my breathing. I reach for a memory, lift it from the
recesses of my mind where it has gathered a film of dust, open it up:
Ocean Beach, Maryland. I lie on a blow-up raft on my stomach, facing into the waves. The swells
lift and rock me. The sky is a piercing bright blue. I squint between my eyelashes in the glare of
the late summer sun, searching for the figures of my family amongst the jumble of weekenders. I
spy them at last and lift a hand to wave. My children and husband are building a castle and
studding it with seashells. Sticks protrude from its turrets for flags. I close my eyes and let the sun
warm me, the waves rock me, the ocean buoy and carry me in its arms like the mother of all life
that it is.
The machine ceases moving around me. I slide out into the real world again and am given a
bathrobe and told to wait in the hall. I want to go home. I want to go back in time to the beach. I
want someone here with me.
Picking up a well-worn magazine, I blankly turn the pages, my vision blurred with unshed tears.
projects, summer evening games of kick-the-can, fishing expeditions, are all swirled and stirred
until each individual memory runs into the next. Yet out of the jar thick with vague
remembrances, some stand out with clarity, like bright red cherries against a blue sky, fresh and
ripe, preserved through time. I cling to the warm ones, the moments of such peace and sweetness
that I can close my eyes and be there again. I need them now.
The CT scanner encloses me like a metal coffin, whirling around me, inches from my face. I'm
being buried alive. The machine rotates, clicks and whirs. I must lie absolutely still. I can't panic.
I need this scan to help the surgeon locate the lump she will remove in a few hours. I close my eyes,
deliberately relax my tight neck muscles, slow my breathing. I reach for a memory, lift it from the
recesses of my mind where it has gathered a film of dust, open it up:
Ocean Beach, Maryland. I lie on a blow-up raft on my stomach, facing into the waves. The swells
lift and rock me. The sky is a piercing bright blue. I squint between my eyelashes in the glare of
the late summer sun, searching for the figures of my family amongst the jumble of weekenders. I
spy them at last and lift a hand to wave. My children and husband are building a castle and
studding it with seashells. Sticks protrude from its turrets for flags. I close my eyes and let the sun
warm me, the waves rock me, the ocean buoy and carry me in its arms like the mother of all life
that it is.
The machine ceases moving around me. I slide out into the real world again and am given a
bathrobe and told to wait in the hall. I want to go home. I want to go back in time to the beach. I
want someone here with me.
Picking up a well-worn magazine, I blankly turn the pages, my vision blurred with unshed tears.
| Contributor's Notes... |
Betsy McPhee grew up in Ann Arbor, and graduated from the University of Michigan. She now lives in
Scottsdale, AZ with her husband, mother, and the youngest of her four grown children. Ms. McPhee is a
seven year survivor of breast cancer. She is active in a women's writing group, and this is her first publication.
Scottsdale, AZ with her husband, mother, and the youngest of her four grown children. Ms. McPhee is a
seven year survivor of breast cancer. She is active in a women's writing group, and this is her first publication.
