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THE MEMORY PALACE
There wasn’t a light on in the place at that time of night.
I walked around in back and tried the door. Of course it was
locked. There was a thick vine growing up the side of the building,
so I tried climbing that. I was almost up when it started to
wobble and detach itself from the building. I came crashing
down and cut my forehead and arms. I found a fire escape in front
and climbed that. I broke into the second story window and was
amazed to find stacks and stacks of photo albums and files overflowing
on the floor. I turned on a light though I knew the dangers of
that. There seemed to be no order to anything. I pulled up a
chair and picked up an album – children on ponies in cowboy outfits,
children holding fish they caught, birthday cakes, parties,
swings, dances, no end to the fascination with children, but
somehow they all seemed to be a part of the same childhood. Then
there was the album of the near-dead, breathing tubes, feeding
bags, the glazed, far away looks of the nearly departed. In
the Memory Palace nothing is lost, just misplaced. I spent most
of the night there until I was so exhausted I could barely keep
my eyes open. While going through the many albums devoted to
young lovers, I suddenly froze. There was a photo of my mother
and father, badly faded, barely twenty years old, perhaps not
even married yet, holding hands and smiling into the camera,
the world holding back its fury for one brief second, giving
them their moment of sunshine, so fragile and tenuous. I removed
the photo from its pocket and stuck it in mine. I went to the
window and looked down. An old man in a uniform stood there.
“Come on down, son, we’re going to have to arrest you,” he said.
“But, officer, I’m an old man,” I said. “The Memory Palace has
no memory. See, it just doesn’t care,” he said. |
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