Memory Preserves
written 2/6-2/9/26
There’s a photo in the family album— a celluloid mason jar preserving memories I otherwise couldn’t have tasted— it showed me that I began genderless. Long hair flowing, face in flowers, eyes closed but heart open to the sacred. A ley line to remind me there was a time before my mothers sickness bellowed out of her and into me, a time before the children's chorus of faggot, before fear of girlhood, or fear of my body not being mine. You can struggle so much that the book of your history reads: WAR, FAMINE, DEATH! While progress, love, or joy can’t be found in the index. You might think the whole endeavor of being on the Earth is just being a flea that some mangy dog is trying to scratch off. You need reminders about the author’s bias. You need a hand from a lake holding a sword, or rays of light refracting on a pewter dish. It was how grazing on cherry tomatoes straight off the vine, working at that farm, on my knees, brought me back to my grandfather’s little plants that were taller than me on my feet. They told me I got to wander in that big yard, all by myself, and plunder the garden. Like when I surprised my mom that I could use the stove without hurting myself. This was my early formation: free and connected to the Earth, but alone. Often scared. Moments before memory could take hold of anything in a vivid and conscious way. Part of healing is understanding that we get to be more complicated than mere catastrophe. Without these buoys I can forget how to keep my head up. I can sink so low it feels like the pressure will crush me, but then—eventually— I remember who I’ve always been, and that all these rough years I held myself together. Now my skin is as soft as those flowers, even though I had to be so tough I grew thorns. Still, I know if I try to summon in that sacred feeling, my heart will be open and full as much as those fields I labored in.