Amnesia

I don’t normally like to have music or any sort of noise around me while I’m writing. I find it incredibly distracting. However, this piece is my exception to the rule. I wrote it Monday 13 September 2010 while listening to JR Richards’ album ‘A Beautiful End’. I was excited when the album arrived in the mail and desperately wanted to listen to it. I also desperately wanted to get some writing done. So, I did something I’ve never done before – I combined the two, and ‘Amnesia’ is the result, and for me, it’s unusually short. I’d like to give a huge thank you to JR for making such a remarkable album. It truly is beautiful. And you, well, you should grab a copy of it yourself.

I forgot who I was that day. I walked into the funeral home and completely lost myself. Everything I had once known and believed in lay in the cherry wood coffin. Taken from me on a perfect spring day in late September. My life undeniably altered for the worse because of the carelessness of another.

I sat on the first chair, on the aisle, of the first row, and stared at the box holding his body. I tried to remember what he looked like. Old enough to show character and wisdom; young enough to still be considered boyish and chic. The fringe that kept falling in his eyes that he’d casually blow away. The mischievous smile that never failed to capture my heart. Eyes that would look at you and through you all at once. An old soul.

The others flowed in around me, each one approaching to give their condolences. And I sat wondering who many of them were, but smiling at their platitudes. Listening to them, one by one, retelling stories of how they met him, how they remembered him, how they loved him. My memories fading with every new story they told.

I never spoke, too sedated to think straight let alone speak. I knew that my grief would become a terrible crushing weight that I wouldn’t be able to get out from under. And I so wanted it to consume me and take away everything that I felt, leaving me nothing but numb.

That day, grief and inescapable sorrow took more than my pain. It took me. That one hour of my life, I wished myself away, and succeeded. I made myself forget who I was. What was the point of being that woman? She was nothing now. Her one reason for existing cruelly snatched away. My son, my only child, dead at sixteen. My boy. Her boy.

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About Danielle

I like to write. What more is there to know?
Gallery | This entry was posted in Twisted Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Amnesia

  1. Dani, your latest piece, ‘Amnesia’ moved me greatly. Your expressive narrative and carefully chosen words had me feeling each and every emotion. Leaving me thinking to myself….I hope this is fiction….

  2. Gina Alfani says:

    That was beautiful . . . and I had the same thought as Stuart . . . I hope this is fiction.

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