The Persistence of Memory (2006)

A narrative essay for an English class that happened to survive.

Each one of us has a past. We all have memories to put the events of our life in order – not always chronological – in our minds. Every so often, we visit the archives of our minds to paw through days and lives gone by. Sometimes we reflect and apply those memories to our lives. Time, the destroyer, has yellowed many memories; some have been all but terminated. We think back as far as we can go…shattered fragments of color depicting a skewed scene.

I try to think back to my first memory. I remember staring out the window from my crib, smearing peanut butter on the TV, the apartment I lived in when I was two, and a number of other random image flashes. The memory scanner stops on what I feel to be my first complete memory. I zoom and focus, within a few moments…I remember…my great-grandmother…

Grandma, my great-grandmother, was the most powerful woman I have ever known, though she stood at only four feet, nine inches. The epitome of the first generation Italian-American stereotype, she was born in East Boston in 1913. For the first sixteen years of my life, the sun rose and fell with my Grandma. I remember how tasty her chicken cutlets were, and to this day, I can still smell her cooking them. Her daily words of wisdom will always ring through my head. She taught me to “Love many, trust few, and always paddle your own canoe.”

In the fall of 1984, I was four years and some change old. I lived with my great-grandmother in Salem, New Hampshire. Grandma and I were getting ready to head over to my preschool. That day, we were going on a fieldtrip to a petting zoo that had amusement park rides. She always made sure I was dressed in the best Osh Kosh could provide. My blonde hair was up in a cute ponytail. She sat me down and whipped up a ham and cheese omelet to die for. While I ate, Grandma reminded me, “Make sure you stay next to Grandma today. If you wander off, someone might snatch you and take you away from me. You remember what I told you bad men do to little girls.” I remembered all of the long conversations and role-playing we did involving the “bad men” and their methods of destroying kids. Moments after breakfast, we hopped in Grandma’s silver Audi and headed over to the school. I was nearly ecstatic that Grandma was going to be a chaperone on my adventure.

After checking in with the school, we all began loading the bus. Soon, we were on the road headed north to the place whose name has been lost to the folds of time. Holding my Grandma’s hand, I looked out the window for the entire trip. When the suburban Salem area began melting away, I found myself in awe. There were so many trees, so much color! Reds, Browns, Greens, Yellows – it was as if I had become part of a famous painting. Pumpkins, horses, cows, apple trees, farms – it was all so amazing. Everywhere I looked there was something bright and new to me. I wanted to savor it always, and I have.

When we arrived at the farm, we were split into smaller groups. I still clung to my Grandma’s hand. We walked around to pet some of the animals. I came to a revelation that day. The world was bigger than I thought it was and there was so much more to see and explore. We were then allowed to go on rides with a buddy. After being bored to death by the merry-go-round, teacups, bumper cars, and other such lame rides, I began focusing on one that I would love to go on. The little, blue helicopters seemed to really fly through the sky. I didn’t want to ride any other stupid ride; I wanted to fly. I snuck away from my grandmother in pursuit of my dream.

I got to the helicopters just in time to get on the next flight. I was seated next to a slightly older, blonde boy. The ride began. I soared through the air without a care in the world. The little helicopter brought me so high that I thought I could touch the sun, whose warmth washed over my entire being. Feeling the wind on my face, I transformed into Wonder Woman flying through the air. It was all so invigorating. I was on top of the world and nothing could touch me. Suddenly, my stomach crashed straight to the ground. “TARA!!! TARA, WHERE ARE YOU? HAS ANYONE SEEN MY GRADDAUGHTER? TAAAARAAAAA!!! There she is. STOP THIS RIDE RIGHT NOW!” I knew that I was in something beyond trouble. The ride operator promptly brought the ride to a halt, and my little helicopter came down from its home in the sky. Just as quickly as it had begun, it was all over. Feeling like the weight of the world lay on my shoulders, I got off the ride and sheepishly descended the ramp.

Within seconds, Grandma grabbed me by the arm and whacked my butt so hard that I nearly fell over. I burst into a torrential downpour of tears. Knowing that I probably deserved worse, I hugged my grandmother and sobbed. “I-I-I w-won’t ev-eve-ever do i-it again. I-I’m sssooo sorrary.” Grandma comforted me and said, “I told you never to wander away from me. I was so scared. I don’t ever want anything bad to happen to you, facia bella! I love you.” I quickly returned to my place by Grandma’s side, clinging to her hand for the rest of our fieldtrip. I never wanted to let go of her hand again.

The curtain closes, the memory replaced in its box. My great-grandmother, the wind beneath my wings, passed away almost ten years ago. When she died, I got off that tiny helicopter forever; but sometimes I can still feel the force of my Grandma’s worry when I sit down. More often than that, I wish I still had my Grandma’s hand to cling to.