Miriam Feder home



My memories were warm, filmy, steamed-up glasses brewing nostalgia. They invited me to see…taste…touch…know. But when life was fast and furious I couldn’t afford the way memory ransacked my heart and left my lungs airless. So my memories turned to cold water, rushing in through the gash the iceberg left.

An iceberg—there’s a devil. How wicked to hide a towering city of thoughtless cold beneath the water’s surface–invisible and unknowable. The water rushed to evict air with drowning clarity. Irrefutable choking ignorance.

Warm or cold, these memories suffocated me. I became used to pushing them away from my throat, from my chest, from my eyes. But now memory is hard to find and trickier still to hang onto. It tears across a field with me clutching at its mane, afraid to fall, to break to crush. The steam races into cold reality laced with terror. Who cares if you ate lunch, darned socks, read the paper or answered the phone? Only this matters now: hanging on tight and noticing which way the fence goes. I might fall; even if I hang on, this crazy ride might crush my legs against that fence. Memory has a will of her own and pays me no mind.

My own mind, my thin, sometimes not-there mind, knows only the mane and the fence. I am in the memory. I live it again in the tell, I live it again in the show, I live it again in the steam of my breath, I live it again in the blood and the bone and the taste of stale kisses. And when it’s finally still, I let go, slide off, and wonder where I’ve landed.