Memories as ‘brain tattoos’, Siri Hustvedt

I remember when you called me lizard and looked into my face as though I was anything but. 

I remember when pies were sixpence and we used to swim in dams.

I remember when the Camberwell pool was shaped like a blue oasis, wide at the shallow end and narrow at the deep.

I remember when you stole lollies from my Lenten collection and imagined I would not notice.

I remember when your baby smiles melted my heart as though I could see nothing more enticing ever.

I remember when the house we lived in seemed as big as a church.

I remember when my mother replaced butter with Daffodil margarine because it was cheaper, she said, and better for us.

I remember when my father brought home a microscope and lined up the slides with ancient images etched onto each plate.

I remember when I looked through the microscope and saw strange shapes like a Rorschach ink blot, only I did not know this them.

I remember when the image on the microscope slide, a hair follicle, looked like my sister’s braided plait.

I remember when we ate maizena pop for breakfast and my mother promised it would fill us even when she made it with water.

I remember when I bought a sticky red toffee apple at the Xavier Maytime Fair and my tooth wobbled out of its socket.

I remember when my little sister fell on a dog bone in the back yard and it shot through her open fist right through to the other side.

I remember when a car collided with me on the zebra crossing on Canterbury Road and I was knocked out cold.

I remember coming to on the butcher’s shop floor, sawdust in my hair.

I remember the scream of the ambulance as it screeched its way to the Box Hill Hospital.

I remember my mother telling me I’d needed to stay overnight and I was scared.

I remember a nurse next day, who came to my bedside, took one look at me and asked as though I was an imposter, ‘What are you doing here?’

I remember when my brother’s bantams, housed in a makeshift shed in our back yard, burned down. 

I remember when our dog got hold of one of the bantam carcases and ran with it between its jaws down the lane.

I remember when night felt like bowl of thick soup I could not swim my way out of.

I remember when my father roamed the house at night and stood in the doorway in search of female children.

I remember the sensation of his brandy breath on my skin even as I turned away.

I remember the last time I saw him in hospital when he visited after my first daughter was born.

I remember his long slow trek up the corridor ahead of my mother.  Breathless with emphysema.

The last time I saw him.