Autobiographical Memories

That first time, I was not drunk, but did not want to ruin the story we were telling ourselves. We had visited a death camp, where I performed my trauma, as was expected. That evening, I sipped my beer and tasted adulthood (I did not like it), then acted strangely on the way home, as I thought I should. I was on the brink of my future, and felt I had already lived so much; yet my photographs show a child, which is what I was to the adult who bought me my half-pint, knowing it would not harm me.

The hens are in the courtyard, the air cool but not harsh, exactly like the first time we came here and stuffed the place with hopes for the future. But these are not the same hens, and the air has been transformed by countless organisms, I realise as I notice that the magazine mark where I killed a fly has been painted over. She is still with me, thank God; the nouns are the same but the adverbs have changed. The place has been preserved, but we do not re-live moments; we have changed and abandoned so much since then.

The story is so familiar that I now remember the event from my mother’s perspective: my mind’s eye sees, framed in the doorway, an old wardrobe worthy of Narnia, leaning against the bed, which has interrupted its fall. I understand that the boy – me, or my son – is inside. But Professor Kirke built his wardrobe to last – it was sturdy, like its creator’s faith – and a mere child’s hiding inside could never have caused such a fall. As a child, I found everything exciting. My eyes then saw every cupboard as an opportunity, but I was no assessor of stability.