Tag Archive | Memories

If I Died…


I often fantasize that when I die, my spirit will stay here long enough and be omniscient enough to know how people react and feel. I’d like to see my own funeral like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.

First one and then another pair of eyes followed the minister’s, and then almost with one impulse the congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery listening to their own funeral sermon!

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain

Don’t worry. This isn’t a cry for help.

But I wonder about particular people. Would he be sorry? Would he miss me? What would he think? (It’s him I think about and wonder about the most. It’s a sickness.)

Would she come all these miles for my funeral? Would she be able to go on?

What would my funeral be like? I know where I want it to be and who I want to do it. I know what I want done with my body. Would those things happen?

What would people say at my funeral? Who would stand up and tell stories about me? How many people would be there? (Who would run sound? 😀 )

How long would people remember me?

Who would remember me?

Why would they remember me?

For Me


I wonder if hair is sort of like the rings of cut trees. Does it hold the memories of its days? Can it retain the residue of warm, cozy diner breakfasts and awkward sleepovers, of disappointments and poor choices, of hurt feelings and unrequited desires?

Every time I grow my hair long it’s to try to prove to a man I’m feminine enough to be desirable. Love me! Love me! Love me! My desire for him overwhelms and obsesses me, but his desire for me is fleeting at best. Why do I even think that my hair will make a difference. I’m always me either way.

Every time I cut my hair off it’s because I’m done trying, because I’m just tired of fighting the fight, with my hair and for a man. Those other memories need to just go away.

This is for me.


What’s Good – Thunderbird

Seven-years old. Riding to church in the back of Daddy’s pointy, green Thunderbird. Itchy in a flowered polyester dress with my sweaty legs chafing against the green vinyl seat.  White, lace cuffed socks on inside-out in my black, patent-leather Mary Janes to avoid the maddening feel of seams rubbing my toes. The bright, warm rays of autumn sunshine strobing through the trees as we speed down the road make me sneeze. Daddy slides the power window down an inch and the cool air streams in along with the comforting smell of his cigarette.  I examine the carton of Pall Malls on the seat next to me, intrigued by the mysterious royalty of the lions and knight on the logo.  I try on Daddy’s hard hat and experiment to see how hard I can hit myself in the head. I am warm, and I am safe and I am happy. Life is good.