Borrowed Memories
Sevilodorf
May 2004
Every night, right after supper, while my sister clears the table and washes up, my mother sits in her big chair by the fire and tells us tales. I like to sit beside her and keep her yarn from tangling. When she tells about my father, I always listen very hard. Hoping that I will remember the times of which she speaks.
I never do.
Sometimes I pretend, just so her eyes will keep smiling; but she always knows.
My brother can remember. He tells me that it's all right that I don't. That I was too young, and that he will tell me the stories whenever I ask. Still, it would be nice to have my own memories, not just those borrowed from other people.
If I could choose, I think I would pick to remember the time we traveled to Lossarnach. My brother always laughs when he tells about us riding father's big grey horse and being lifted up into the apple trees to look into a bird's nest. My mother laughs too and hugs me tight as she tells of me falling asleep in a basket and my father carrying me back to my grandsire's house.
Whenever I try to imagine it, I can never see the face of the man who lifts me up. I used to use my uncle's face, but somehow that wasn't right. Once, I asked my mother to tell me what my father looked like, she dropped her knitting and her eyes got all sad. Then my sister glared at me from across the room and started rattling the dishes and talking about some dress she was making. It wasn't fair, she remembers what he looked like, and I just wanted to know.
Later, after we had gone to bed, my brother whispered that my father had dark eyes, like mine. And dark hair that curled tightly when it was wet. Just like mine. And a laugh so loud that it would rattle the plates on the table. I thought that sounded like our uncle, but my brother said that it was different somehow. But he couldn't tell me how and after a while I stopped asking.
I hope my mother never stops telling her stories, even though they sometimes make her sad. I think she should tell them so that she and my brother and sister will always remember the things my father did and said and the way he looked.
I just wish I could.
Author Notes: This is one of a collection of tales told by Middle-Earth mothers. The complete collection can be found at the burpingtroll.com beginning Mother's Day 2004.
Sevilodorf
May 2004
Every night, right after supper, while my sister clears the table and washes up, my mother sits in her big chair by the fire and tells us tales. I like to sit beside her and keep her yarn from tangling. When she tells about my father, I always listen very hard. Hoping that I will remember the times of which she speaks.
I never do.
Sometimes I pretend, just so her eyes will keep smiling; but she always knows.
My brother can remember. He tells me that it's all right that I don't. That I was too young, and that he will tell me the stories whenever I ask. Still, it would be nice to have my own memories, not just those borrowed from other people.
If I could choose, I think I would pick to remember the time we traveled to Lossarnach. My brother always laughs when he tells about us riding father's big grey horse and being lifted up into the apple trees to look into a bird's nest. My mother laughs too and hugs me tight as she tells of me falling asleep in a basket and my father carrying me back to my grandsire's house.
Whenever I try to imagine it, I can never see the face of the man who lifts me up. I used to use my uncle's face, but somehow that wasn't right. Once, I asked my mother to tell me what my father looked like, she dropped her knitting and her eyes got all sad. Then my sister glared at me from across the room and started rattling the dishes and talking about some dress she was making. It wasn't fair, she remembers what he looked like, and I just wanted to know.
Later, after we had gone to bed, my brother whispered that my father had dark eyes, like mine. And dark hair that curled tightly when it was wet. Just like mine. And a laugh so loud that it would rattle the plates on the table. I thought that sounded like our uncle, but my brother said that it was different somehow. But he couldn't tell me how and after a while I stopped asking.
I hope my mother never stops telling her stories, even though they sometimes make her sad. I think she should tell them so that she and my brother and sister will always remember the things my father did and said and the way he looked.
I just wish I could.
Author Notes: This is one of a collection of tales told by Middle-Earth mothers. The complete collection can be found at the burpingtroll.com beginning Mother's Day 2004.