I Remember

I remember monsters under the bed.

I remember earthquakes.

I remember playing with my neighbor’s Barbie dolls and wondering if they would melt in the drier.

I remember wondering if crayons would melt in the drier, too. They do.

I remember Mt. St. Helens and cars covered with ash. The TV news was showing the mountain exploding, over and over again.

I remember when Reagan was shot. It seemed like the TV was on all the time. Everyone got quiet when they talked about it. They whispered about Kennedy, it was one of those things… “Where were you when you heard the news?” It’s just something everyone knows.

I remember the day my neighbor moved away and we all stood out on the corner and waved to her. She watched us through the back window of the car until it finally turned a corner and we never saw her again.

I remember thinking about that day on the day it was me in the car and my friends on the corner getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared behind a curve in the road.

I remember first grade. My teacher was tall and thin and angry and smelled of stale cigarettes. I didn’t know much about Montessori, but I knew it made her hate me. I’d been in Montessori, did I think that made me smart? Sometimes when we did listening exercises…”Color the tall man black… Color the small dog red…” I would stare out of the window and miss Montessori.

I remember the day the Challenger exploded. I dreamed of being an astronaut. I watched every shuttle launch, in the school library on that day. I remember the shuttle on the orange fuel tanks, the white propulsion streams, the perfect blue of the sky. Then the moment between before and after, the moment between realization and comprehension. Propulsions became eruptions, destruction, seconds ticking away as fuel boiled away in smoke and flames. I stopped dreaming about space.

I remember that evening. The TV news was showing the shuttle exploding, over and over again. My mother was crying, and I wondered why we cry for people we’ve never met. I wondered if I should, too, but I felt full of cotton and numb inside.

I remember when I could find a thousand tales to entertain me in the flecks and grains of a rock.

I remember when the alley behind the auto body shop was the most exciting place on the planet. I would come home at night with my pockets full of springs and sprockets and washers and imagination. Now all I find in my pockets at night is loose change and grocery store receipts.

I remember Stretch Armstrong, Munchichi, Teddy Ruxpin, and Cabbage Patch dolls.

I remember Smurfs, and Thundercats, and G.I. Joe. We weren’t allowed to watch G.I. Joe. We watched Reading Rainbow, Captain Kangaroo, and The Electric Company.

I remember when willow trees were ninjas and playground gravel was hot lava and falling in made you a lava monster instead of dead.

I remember when going outside to play was so much better than staying in to watch TV. Even better than G.I. Joe.

I remember the smell of snow coming, wood burning, cocoa simmering.

I remember setting the table. Making the salad. Pouring the tea, sometimes the sake.

I remember tempura, the batter foaming in the hot oil. Sweet potatoes were my favorite, dipped in sweet and salty soy. I always burned my mouth, too impatient to wait, then we watched my dad’s slides from Japan. Projected up on the eggshell wall, the scent on the air as heavy as our bellies with tempura or sukiyaki. My dad was happy then.

I remember our first microwave. We were all so excited yet we all stood back ten feet and averted our eyes when it was on. Deep down we all thought it would give us cancer, but it boiled water in a minute flat.

I remember Arsenio Hall, parachute pants, and Madonna. I remember pegging my jeans and rolling my sleeves and wearing two pairs of socks.

I remember “We have something to tell you…” I was fifteen. My mom had cancer.

I remember the day the wall fell in Berlin. I was in German class.

I remember learning to drive, taking my mom to chemo.

I remember the day I dropped out of school. My mom had a story rehearsed to tell everyone where I’d gone. I didn’t care.

I remember “school” in the hospital. Two hours every morning. Mostly we sat and scribbled on paper. Sometimes I bothered. Sometimes the man in charge would bring me articles about Africa and elephants. I used to stare at pictures of the savanna at sunset and imagine myself in a place without walls.

I remember rubber walls. I always thought it was a joke, mental hospitals with rubber walls. They’re still hard enough to crack your knuckles or skull on, but the hospital doesn’t have to repair the wall when you do. We learned to throw chairs instead.

I remember graduation. I was the one who’d “gone away” for six months, come back, and caught up in time to graduate. Most of my teachers gave me that special look, the good-for-you-poor-thing smile. I remember the ones who didn’t.

I remember dropping out again. College this time. I went back. Dropped out again. Went back again. Dropped out again.

I remember my final year, on my way to morning class. I remember the intersection, the shoulder of the road, the dry grass, the grey sky. I remember the moment between before and after, the moment between realization and comprehension. The moment between “There’s been a plane crash in New York City…” and “A second plane… Oh my God… A second plane…”

I remember walking into the school that morning, TV’s were pulled out on carts to the hallways, the news was showing the planes exploding over and over again. Everyone was crying and I wondered if I should, too, but I felt full of cotton and numb inside. They say it’s our Kennedy… “Where were you when you heard the news?” It’s just something everyone knows.

I remember the day I met my kids. I was green, they were six, I thought I could never interpret for first-graders.

I remember the day I said goodbye to my kids. They had grown, so had I. I hugged them, and they walked away. Twelve years old, my little girl looked back at me from the classroom door. I will really really miss you, Ms. ——. She’s at the deaf school now. I really really miss you, too. But, I know she’s happy there. Really, really.

I remember the day the Gulf War started. Both times.

I remember “We have something to tell you…” I was thirty-two. It was a divorce this time. Long past due, but I still cried. Maybe they’ll get it right this time.

I remember when I thought there was something to be had in growing up, and when I realized that there wasn’t. There’s only something left behind.

I remember the day when I realized I’d left that something behind.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to say, “I remember the day when I found it again.”