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Memory

October 16, 2009

Suddenly the part of my brain connected with sensuous memory recall has kicked into overdrive …

I will be happily walking down the street in the still warm pale October sunshine and suddenly underneath my feet are the cool, rough stone flags of the kitchen I lived in when I turned twenty. I remember the sticky patches of bin juice near the back door; the horrible feeling of a cold, split tea bag between my toes when I had braved the January kitchen to try and turn the hot water on in the darkness.

Or suddenly, my mind is filled with dry leaves and snapped willow branches catching my soles and  the sound they made (are making) when I jogged next to the Lagan river.

I remember the feel of the plastic covered, wood chip handles on our kitchen drawers. And the shift in texture from smooth white carrier bags, lifting them out to pull up thickly stacked tea towels. Their grains rough and well washed under the searching  pads of my fingers. A feeling as satisfying as dipping cupped hands into bags of dried split-peas.

How odd that my mind is choosing to reconcile itself to a return home through these vivid memories; that happen, only when I switch off the lamps in my small room, seven stories up in downtown Hiroshima

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