In memory of… (Autobiographical)

In memory of…

© Kristina Blasen, 2007. All rights reserved.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee is following me around today; the scent catches me unaware as I walk, as I lean over the desk and my hair falls softly over my shoulder, it is only a passing distraction so I twist and turn its brown locks into a knot held only by my chewed blue pen.

Last night I was alone in the house for what seemed like the first time in years. I felt the need to keep moving, to stay busy, to quell the monsters of the mind before the rioting could escape into the world.

I’d found a box of old pictures given back to me by an aging grandmother who lives far away. One photo album held all she ever knew of me. My mom and dad’s wedding pictures, the baby shower celebrating me, family gatherings from two to four, then long spans of nothing. A school picture from second, fourth and fifth grade. A single picture of me at twelve or thirteen and then, nothing, like I didn’t exist in between times, or thereafter.

Strange looking at that little being with the deep blue eyes and wondering if the person in my head today really is the same person there must have been long before the first hazy memories come in.

In each picture I see the same baby-blonde hair, the big blue eyes directly gazing at the camera, the gangly body that doesn’t quite fit, yards of frothy pink lace lying gently at the knee and dainty black Mary Jane’s with a delicate strap.

Who is that person? I wonder, shaking my head. The image of that feminine young thing jangles harshly against my current self-concept. Dainty straps are weak and treacherous, I’ve chosen strength of will and depth of character instead of mere fripperies.

But the eyes, the eyes give it away every time. There is no doubt that she is me and that she shared the same outlook and soul of the person that I know today. It is suddenly clear that this mind was shaped long before it found itself in the body.

Even when directly assessing the camera, some part of her is standing back and observing the scene, cataloging the moment, reserving judgment, mentally playing somewhere else where no one can follow.

Today is the celebration of that discovery. I please myself and maybe that is enough. I can’t be blonde or sweet or feminine because you want me to be. I choose to be me and today that is going to be a brown-haired Amazon with hair in plaited braids flowing down her back, a far off expression on her face; maybe you’ll look and you’ll see she’s gone to play where none can follow.

Come back tomorrow, I’ll still be me, will you know me then?

This is a very old short (2007)…now it’s like a trip down memory lane, about a trip down memory lane!