I just came back from the concluding session of the creative writing course - where both groups gathered for a bring and share supper and to hear readings. The Other Group seemed very different to Our Group. Just 7 weeks ago, though, the people in Our Group were just as unfamiliar as The Other Group, and yet there's a definite bond between us now. The course instructor has sort of gate-crashed the entire other group onto our group's first follow-up get-together planned for the 22nd of November. It would be much more comfortable to stay with just our own group, but hopefully they'll become familiar too in a matter of time.

This is the piece I read tonight.


I Remember

I remember
pieces of my childhood.
There is no complete picture anymore,
but out of the many-coloured, time-muted tapestry,
golden-threaded memories shine.

Can this be me?
Head beneath the level of the counter top.
Cold smooth kitchen floor,
rough warm blanket.
Game of boo around cupboard doors.
Shrieks of delight!
Mother's face, first memory.

Cindy!
Next door's dog.
Big and spotted, black on white,
even bigger in our kitchen.
Nails clatter on tiled floor,
tail beats on cupboard doors.
Sharing my marmite.

Playpen in the garden, two bars broken.
Deliciously soft grass,
happy sun.
giant sky.
And now there is no toddler here,
but a fierce lion.
Roaring.

A trip to London.
I am told I was four.
Streets of matching, stuck-together houses.
In our street,
in our house,
a stairway.
On the stairs,
a home-made wooden slide, made by our Dad.
And under the stairs,
a secret cupboard.
Or a cave.

Playing in the garden,
with a hose
and a lot of mud.
Engineering great dams, waterfalls, and farmlands.
Water frothing and churning,
rich and brown and foaming,
coffee and cream.

First day of school.
It was called Class One.
Clothes laid out in readiness, days before.
Brown dress, white socks, brown shoes,
big brown school knickers.
Long black tarred driveway, the worst kind for grazing your knees on.
Mothers and children.
Laughing and crying.
So many new faces,
and a new desk,
and new crayons,
and a picture to colour, of an elephant holding an umbrella.
And Mrs Collinson,
the oldest person I'd ever met,
with a stick,
and a bun,
and a glass cube through which she squinted at our writing.

Long afternoons,
playing at home.
No extra activities, then.
Sitting in my tree,
watching the ants on their endless journeys along the branches.
Feeding them breadcrumbs.
Watching each breadcrumb as it travelled along the branch,
transported by a dozen little bodies,
finally disappearing
into a hole into the branch,
and down to their little ant homes.

And so it goes on.
So many memories,
but so many more days, unremembered.
The days were all mine,
yet not the memories.
Not anymore.

I have three children of my own now.
And I think
that it's in watching them discover their own magic,
that the yearning for my own
childhood memories
grows.