Memory Glimpse

bare trees

bare trees

There is a worn-in scruffiness to the carpet in the living room of my childhood home. It's a matted-down, greyish fiber that leaves a prickly imprint on my kneecaps. I can see myself sprawled on it, stomach down, basking in the quiet back-noise of the wood-panelled television. The set's volume meter reads five ticks. My mother sits beside me in the gold sofa, her feet nested into—almost lost within—the chair's enormous footstool. She is drinking coffee from a shallow mug. Faint cracks wrap its surface like the shell of a hardboiled egg. I am eating graham crackers shaped like miniature professional wrestlers, a snack motif now long outdated. It is quiet enough to hear the clucking of the old wooden wall clock above the television; everything outside is grey with late fall.

I can see myself making occasionally scurryings up the sofa to dip a cracker in the coffee, though aside from these intrusions, the scene is still life. Both of us are occupied—I with my cracker box, my mother with the news. These separate occupations are not an ignorance or rejection of the other though, and rather contentedness marks the occasion. There is a mutual conversation of space, rather than voice, and it ebbs out for hours. Much can be said in an afternoon without speaking.