memory bank

We don’t always get the chance to revisit scenes of our childhood memories. This summer I went in search of a fire pond in Lincolnville, Maine. Fifty years ago, I fell into this pond and was rescued by my uncle. I remembered that I had lost my sneaker and Uncle George dove back in to retrieve it. On one grace-filled day this September, I stood on the dock of my pond. It looked so much smaller than in my memory.

Cattails and rushes crowded the pond’s banks. Reflected pines pierced the clouds. I tried to re-capture the moment, imagining my arms and legs flailing through the lily pad stems. But Uncle George wasn’t in the rowboat about to take me for a row. Nellie wasn’t standing on the house stoop wearing her long black dress and high button shoes. I can’t go back, but the memory is a treasure in my memory bank. My mind is refreshed with details. I can see the spot more clearly and my imagination can do the rest. Fine fodder for a writer! I need to write down more memories.