Short Story: Memories, Part II

Where does a story begin? This is something that all authors, writers, dreamers and poets grapple with. Does it begin with birth? Or does it begin with the present? I carried the laundry up the stairs in a big, black sack. I threw it onto the bedroom floor thinking that all the clothes inside will have creased before I take the time to fold them and put them away. I’ve spent the day reading, drinking coffee and trying to push all other worries out of my mind by convincing myself that they can all be dealt with tomorrow. But tomorrow comes so quickly when there are things to do.

A memory: mum used to make us milkshakes by filling a pint glass with ice cream, pouring on milk, and stirring it all together with a fork. The glass would steam with cold, and the milk would squelch as she tried not to spill the concoction over the sides of the glass. They were delicious. Much more ice cream would go into the milk shake than would be served in a bowl, so we often opted for the milk shake. We would always buy Neapolitan ice cream (three stripes of brown, red and white) and the chocolate would always be devoured first, which made me wonder why we didn’t just buy chocolate.

A memory: There was a certain point in the trail through the woods that always smelled really bad, like rotting bitterness. Mum told us that it was probably a dead animal, but it smelled like that for years and we never found any animal.

A memory: One time I bought a pack of “joke” stickers, which included a trail of ants and burn marks, and I put the burn marks on the kitchen counters. I completely forgot about them, but when I remembered and asked mum if she had noticed them, she told me that she had been soaking the burn marks with wet flannels in the hope that they would clean off.

A memory: I don’t remember much from the last house. I only remember darkness, the smell of unclean skin and must. Mum glued one of my paintings on the hallway wall with wallpaper paste and I was angry. I think it was her way of showing me that she approved of my art, despite criticizing it for being too “scary”. Did I ever ask her bout her life?

A memory: I ate a lot of boiled eggs (maybe 12?) at a picnic in High Wycombe with mum, dad and Katy. It’s the only picnic I remember us having. Mum told me that I would get constipated, but I don’t remember if I did or not.

A memory of my dad: I sprayed perfume on his pillow once and he got really angry because he wouldn’t be able to sleep on it. The smell would be too strong and he was allergic to all the chemicals.

A memory of my dad: Dad got really drunk and was going to become “blood brothers” with mum’s friend Don. So Katy, mum and I collaborated and stole his knife. We hid it beside the chest of drawers in our bedroom and found it there years later.

A memory of dad: He came back from America with a big suitcase of presents. He was still half asleep in bed when I asked him if I could start opening them. He said yes, and I opened a long, stick shaped package (I still remember the intrigue) which turned out to be a twirling stick with bubbles and sparkles inside and long, shiny, rainbow ribbons on either end. I loved it.

What does it mean that I remember these things instead of something else? How does my brain choose one memory over another?