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Minny’s head often felt full. Yesterday, she had been trying to remember something when her head exploded with the effort. The top half landed on the couch, spilling millions of little pictures. She spent the rest of the day tracking down each piece of paper. When she finally had all of them, she stuffed them into her desk drawer.

But she had found a way of dealing with the pictures. She turned them into useful things. She turned her cooking memories into pots and cooking tools. The other food memories she had she turned into forks, spoons, knives, plates and cups. Her couch was full of family, friends and her cat. The bed in her room was dreams and passionate nights. The kitchen walls were plastered with memories of her mother. It had been her favorite place to be. Her father smiled at her from every wall of her office and her brother sat in the living room. In the garden, parties glimmered inside little glass bubbles hanging from trees.

On one particular Wednesday, she found another memory, deep deep down. The memory was black and ugly, full of anger and hatred. It hissed at her as she pulled it out, exposed it to the light. She smoothed it out. Shaped it. When she finished, she used her new black pen to write to her estranged father. The pen never failed her afterwards.

Inspired by “Offerings” by Marlene Buono


1 thought on “Memories”

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