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Episode 85. Little Mac's Memoirs of Now
She was known as Big Bertha. I only ever called her Bertie.
Now Bertie, she slowed things right down, she was that big all right. Like a night sky with no light but that of her own stars. You might think you were a big city with your own illumination, but she made you see you were just carrying around that one little match and shielding it for all you were worth.
Nevertheless, she let you know about that little match that it was all you needed to do away with any darkness. And so she was a wife who uplifted, a companion who cared, a kindred soul who would not only darn your socks but sew a heart on them. I cannot tell you how I miss her.
And really that is not the point. I am talking to you, when I have no idea who you are, not to grieve but to fulfill a promise. For Bertie asked of me once, imagining me out of her great love to be an interesting person, that I would write my memoirs. That was a long time ago, before I lost my memory. Now that I have it back, or some semblance of it, I'm determined to honour her wish.
However, and it's an uncertain world chock-a-block with howevers and whatevers, I find that to dwell in the past would not honour either the woman she was or the man she wanted me to be. The man she thought I was and who therefore I will impersonate as best I can. So these will be memoirs of now, beginning with this very moment.
So, at this very moment, I am sitting by the window looking out at the sea. Well, I was looking out at the sea. Bertie once told me if I ever missed her to just do that. Look out there at the endlessness. That would be her. Raise the window so you hear the surf, the gulls, and smell the sweet sea breeze. That would be her. Watch how the waves subside into the sea just like your thoughts of love and hate. That would be her. And that would be real love beyond the loving and hating that make people suffer so much.
And I was doing that. I was trying to do that. She was ever a little beyond me when it came to thinking deep. She was after all the one who made my thinking cap. And it is with that very cap snugged down on my head (and the teapot naked as a jaybird) that I was remembering what she told me and trying to follow orders.
And then this mosquito hawk caught my attention. It was on the window screen down by the sill, with the shadow of it on the screen down on the sill like an echo or the kind of repetition that helps you remember what you need to remember even when you didn't know it was something that merited remembrance.
I better stop here for now. Because I think I may be beginning to wander. But at least you know now what to expect. I will remember here what is now.
The mosquito hawk had been still the whole time. That's what occurred to me and what took my mind away from the ocean and Bertie. I thought the little creature so very alive. So now I'm going outside and I'm picking it off the window screen and I see that it is very dead instead. It is stiff in its position of alighting on the screen. It landed and it never moved again. So my first memoir is a tragedy of sorts. A very tiny tragedy. No one will shed a tear, I'm sure. And you are not to tell that I shed one. My daughter Delilah is worried about me anyway. She might think I was going senile.
18 September 2018
Prospect, Nova Scotia
Keywords:clinging, close-up, hawk, mosquito, screen, shadows, sill, window