My memory is shot.
The weeks before Tony died- and the weeks after- eight solid weeks, on each side,a liquid of colour and venue and sensation and phrase and song.
My son’s third birthday.. I don’t remember it at all.
Our last Christmas together, as a family… I remember bits, but it blurs with the other three Christmases we spent together… four, in all. The first, just the two of us, in Cowra, me working Christmas Day at the hospital. The second, three of us, me laced with post natal depression, so tired I sobbed when our baby woke at 6am. The third, our daughter was conceived. And the fourth was our last.
December, January…. I barely remember them at all. Only New Years Eve I remember in depth and detail… it was so much fun. And I remember sitting across from him, and one of our friends commented on how completely perfect we were together, how well we fit.
Ironically, the longer I’m here, in Paradise, and the more my Purple Life fades into such a non existence that I made have just dreamed it, if you don’t consider the exception of the Purple children that came from within; the more I remember, and the more vivid those memories are, of being young.
Of who I used to be.
Of who I started off being.
It’s returning to a child like state, I suppose… a more innocent, connected time of being.
Or maybe it’s the trauma.
I blame the trauma, for all those missing memories. Memory, I think, it’s like jelly… it’s created, then it sets.
All that trauma… my brain was far too hot, for memory to do any setting, and solidifying.
It was far too busy being surviving, primarily, on instinct, coiled in fright.
I’m sure those memories are still there… the brain is a limitless source of RAM, is it not? They are there, just not solidified… still in the working recesses, the basement of my cortex.
I’m almost sure of it.