Autobiographical Memories

Waste disposal malfunction. Body functioning incorrectly. What now feels like the interruption of a honed system was once a weekly routine: fatigue was tackled by glucose; only the first taste was sweet, then pasty chocolate clung to my teeth and soda stung my throat while I ignored the sensation of malady. Sitting on the toilet, watching the lock on the door at the end of the long bathroom, hoping it will last, were familiar feelings. Now, I am healthy, and these morning occurrences in a much smaller bathroom are part of the rare days when I pretend to be reckless.

As I clean the glass in my bright home, the stale smell of alcohol recreates a dark memory of my grandparents’ home, which was all the darker the last time I visited it, and sat in a dirty bedroom while my grandmother lay like a grotesque monarch and devoured the chocolates we had brought. I probably knew then that soon she would be dying. Our Boxing Day routine was over; and now it seems impossible that the grinning lady in the photograph and the gorging monarch were part of the same life, or that either was ever alive at all.

The sweetness in the bowl comforted, despite the conflict I had suffered. My outer layers relished the taste, while my innards nursed the consequences of severe talking. The pineapple piece passed from my tongue to the back of my mouth, and somewhere, there, it passed. Now that the sweetness had gone, my troubles returned to the front of my mind. She passed in the doorway, and my plot to mend things with soothing words departed. In my stomach I could feel the physical presence of the swiftly eaten breakfast, and the other pain – severe, untreatable, once avoidable but now irreversible.

How the bowl of deep orange could provide only a background stimulus despite dominating my vision is, in retrospect, a mystery. At the time, it seemed natural that my conscious mind focussed on the words around me, severe and defensive, while the consumption of this natural goo was a motor action, repetitive and thoughtless. I nevertheless gained pleasure while I swallowed. The half-liquid’s sweetness and cheapness conspired to delight me: by enjoying low cost foods, I was beating the system; although my mind did not articulate my glee with such acuteness. Words make such things more precise, yet less accurate.