A16
Collective Memory
Excerpt from collection:Call it Awash: Stories and aphorisms.

july

August stood with his hands on the rim of the bathroom sink,
staring at himself in the mirror
as he had done each day for the past month or so.
In two weeks he would be eighteen years old.
He was an adult now; there were certain things expected of him.
His eyes criticized every small detail of his too young face:
the patchy stubbly hairs that grew weakly at his cheeks,
his blue eyes that were more sky blue than steel blue,
the blonde hair that only added to his childish complexion,
and his skin-and-bones frame that could never wield a hammer,
much less a sword.

He crawled into bed and found a point in the ceiling
to spend his sleeplessness with.
August would often try to fall asleep by thinking of
all the things that were happening at that current moment:
maybe his first grade teacher was making a roast or something like that,
niagara falls was raging on,
ants were collecting food for winter,
his lungs converting air into other air
and the plants converting it back,
and the sun was down where he lay
and up somewhere else,
and perhaps a family of two presently became a family of three,
and someone’s father had just died.

If that was unsuccessful, he would reach into the bottom drawer of his dresser,
remove several shirts and place them on the ground.
A tape recorder lay six shirts down in the drawer; he picked it up
and pushed the antiquated Play button.
“You have reached the Stephen, Elizabeth, and August Carpenter at 530-268-1101.
Please leave your name, phone number, and a detailed message after the beep.”
He held the Rewind button and played it again.
His mother was always the one behind the camera, taking the pictures or video,
trying desperately to record her family’s history,
but leaving none of her own.

Now she was gone, and August had a voice message greeting to lull him to sleep.

Ruth Crimson-Forde