The Memory Transfer by June D. Wolfman
Julie and her dying mother consent to a new medical procedure that allows them to transfer a memory to each other.
I come to the hospice with my knees shaking - a single memory. My mother and I would be transmitting a single memory to one another before she died. It is part of a new service by a nurse with an AI chip implanted in her brain.
My mother adjusts a pillow at the small of her back. She looks out of place in hospice care. She wears her mammoth diamond ring and Gucci scarf, yet she has oxygen from a tube, which makes the picture of her skew. I have not been up to see her in a few months. The business moves so fast that it's hard to keep up. Designing women's bags and hats is practically an Olympic sport. I'm glad I have a valid excuse. I would want to stay away from my mother in any case.
The pillow behind her back won't settle how she wants it, so she throws it at a passing nurse. "Get me a bigger pillow, please," she says hoarsely. The nurse picks up the small pillow and shoots me a glance. It speaks volumes. It practically says, and I'm sorry, but it does, when is this bitch going to die already?
The nurse brings a bigger pillow, and my mother asks - no, orders - her to place it properly. The nurse tries. Nothing will satisfy. I assume the cancer makes her uncomfortable, and no proper placement of the pillow will fix that.
"Bring me my hairbrush," my mother croaks, "and hand me that little mirror."
I do as I'm told, as I always have with her. She brushes her blonde bob, reaches behind her, pulls out a lipstick from somewhere, and applies a tasteful coral color to her mouth.
"So, where have you been?" she asks. "You know they practically neglect you in here."
"I'm sorry, Mom," I mumble. She already knows where I've been. She knows the business is a bear, and she taught me to make it one. She was always working.
"Your sister has not been to see me; hasn't even called," she has found her voice now.
A plump and pleasant-looking woman knocks on the threshold of my mother's cubicle. "Hello, Mildred," she says to my mother. You and Julia are ready for the memory exchange?"
"I am," my mother says, her eyes scanning my face for a clue of something incriminating.
"I'm ready," I say. "Which one of us goes first?"
"Your mother goes first. She can transfer only one memory to you. Then, if she is up to it, you can transfer only one memory to her."
"They tell me your name is Laura," my mother says. "They told me to prepare. I did."
"Okay, Mildred, all three of us will drink some of this blue substance. Your memories will flow from you to me to the other of you. Let's begin. Please take a sip, each of you."
Laura wore a purple FLAX skirt and a starched white cotton short-sleeved blouse. Her hands were immaculately groomed. We all drank the Kool-Aid, so to speak.
"Lean back, Mildred," Laura said. "Get comfortable, Julia, as well. Please, everyone, close your eyes. Mildred, let your mind relax into your memory."
Suddenly, I felt as if I were my mother in this daydream. I stood outside a shack on a dirt patch. I wrung clothes and hung them on a line. My arms ached. Drops from the wet clothing fell and beaded on the sandy dirt, then dried almost instantly.
"Mildred?" my grandmother called from the shack door. "Come in here!"
I watched my feet carry me to my grandmother.
"Here is a dime. Pick up the supper food from Don Nelson's Market." My grandmother folded the dime in a small piece of cloth and folded that into my hand. She passed a market list to me. It said two cents of lard, three cents of flour, two cents of milk, three cents of ham.
"Okay, Mama," I heard myself say.
"Finish those clothes directly when you get back. Don't dawdle."
"Yes, Mama."
I watched my bare feet carry me down a long dirt road to the grocery store. My ankles and calves were dusty, and my homemade flour-sack dress showed wear.
I ordered everything as I was told.
"Is that two cents, or approximately two cents?" Mr. Nelson asked me about the lard.
"Two cents, Sir."
He placed a hunk of gelatinous white lard on a piece of wax paper and weighed it. He fussed with it for some time.
When it was time to pay, I opened my hand, which I had clasped closed so hard that my nails cut into my palm, and yet the dime was not there.
"What's the matter, Mildred?" asked Mr. Nelson.
"Good Lord. I've gone and lost the dime!" I said, and I began to weep.
"Now, now... You came straight here, right?" Mr. Nelson asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"Trace your steps back. You'll find it. I'll keep your groceries in the ice box."
Frantically, I walked the road back and forth. I saw my footprints where the dirt road was loose. I couldn't find the dime. I realized I sweated through my dress.
Finally, I went home, and Mama said, "Where is the supper food?"
"Mama, I lost the dime."
My grandmother began to scream, "Girl, don't you know there is a Depression on? Don't you know that is our only dime until Daddy gets paid?" She marched out to the yard and broke a switch from a bush. She marched back to me, grabbed me by the arm, and began to whip my legs, up and down, up and down until blood ran down.
"Please, Mama," I heard myself say, "I didn't mean to."
She slapped me across the face.
I woke up.
My mother woke up.
There were welts on my legs, but they quickly disappeared.
"Mom," I said. "You never told me that story. You all were so poor! And grandma was cruel."
"Well, now I told you," she said. She applied more lipstick. She took a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "And you were never poor," she mumbled, "I saw to that."
Laura poured some cold water for my mother and me. She looked shaken herself.
"And you, Julia? Did you prepare a memory for your mother?"
I sat in shock. I had meant to share a memory of her criticizing and demanding, drilling the importance of properly walking with a book on our heads for posture. I wanted her to feel how distant she felt to me. But now, I couldn't do it. Desperately, I searched my brain for a good memory. Somehow, I sensed Laura was helping me find one. I remembered and said, "I'm ready."
My sister and I were in the bathtub when we were four and five years old. My mother had bought the foam from a spritz can kids could play with in the tub. My sister used the foam first. She used it to make her hair stand up straight like magic. We laughed, all of us laughed and laughed. I used the foam to make myself boobies. This made my mother laugh so hard tears ran down her cheeks. "Lord, you girls," she said affectionately. "Finish up in here, and get ready for bed now."
I woke up.
My mother was smiling. She started to laugh. "We had so many good times, didn't we?" she said.
"Yes, Mother," I lied. How had I found that rare terrific memory? I usually only remember her coldness.
"Oh, I loved you girls," she said.
I bit my tongue. She was never home, and when she was, she was quick with the back of her hand. I glanced at Laura. She had peace in her eyes. Did I have peace? I wondered. Why can't I show her how she was... why my sister won't call... or visit? Wasn't that what this whole exercise was about?
I closed my eyes and listened with my mind. I remembered how hungry, skinny, and tired my mother was that day she gave me as a memory. She was cold and hard as a mother, with very few exceptions. But she always made sure we had enough to eat. She made sure we ate with proper manners, studied French, and did well in school. To her, she did a great job. To me, I just remembered the Iron Matron.
"Does this mean I will l die now?" my mother asked Laura.
"Not today, I believe," Laura said gently.
My mother closed her eyes. For some minutes, her breathing became ragged. She pulled the oxygen tube away from her nose. A nurse came in and gently replaced the tubing.
"Mom, there were nine of you kids, right? I mean, we only know Aunt Judy, but there were nine?"
"Yes, nine mouths to feed, and no money," my mother said. "How is business?"
"Business is very good. The fall line is selling as fast as we can make things. The designing houses are all angry that we don't move faster."
"And how is that husband of yours?" my mother asked.
"He's feeling better," I said. "The doctors think he'll make a full recovery. COVID is a bitch."
"Well, make sure he doesn't stray. They do, you know. They stray... the men."
Of course, I thought, a dig. Something for me to worry about. Something negative. As per usual.
"Get some rest now, Mom."
My mom closed her eyes. Laura winked at me. It was time to leave my mother in peace.
When I left my mother's room, Laura said, "Thank you for leaving her in peace."
"It's like I'm bursting with the memory I prepared," I said.
"I know. You were brave not to share it," she said, "Do you want to transfer the memory to me?"
I looked at her and felt her eyes to be honest and direct.
"We still have enough medicine in us for me to receive it by your just thinking of it," she said.
We sat down in the lounge. I nodded. We both closed our eyes.
I was nine years old. I was delivering newspapers. The July Saturday sweltered, and I was getting sunburned. I had ninety houses on my route. Our house was on my way, and I stopped to cool off.
"Did you finish your route?" mother demanded.
"No, ma'am, I'm getting some water."
"Don't be a baby," she sniped. She turned to me, her coral lipstick and false eyelashes ideally in place. You're babysitting next door tonight. I arranged it. Your lazy sister didn't want the job. You're old enough."
"The doctor said she's anemic and very underweight," I retorted. "She's just tired."
The back of the hand. SMACK. "Don't talk back to your MOTHER."
I opened my eyes.
Laura opened her eyes.
"You were working from a young age," Laura said.
"Yes, and all the years since. My mother is allergic to laziness." I paused. "Would she have experienced this memory the way I experienced it? You know? The fear and exhaustion and her coldness and her hardness? Or would she have been proud that she raised me to work hard?"
"It would have been difficult for her to see your view. That's one reason I hoped you would pick a different memory. I know how you felt, and I'm sorry."
"Even as she's dying, she wouldn't have understood," I said.
"I don't think she would," Laura said.
I hugged Laura and left the hospice. I got into my red Saab and sped away.
My two sons were doctors. I reflected on how they rarely called or visited, though I had never realized that before. What would they share with me at the end?
Image generated with OpenAI |
My mother adjusts a pillow at the small of her back. She looks out of place in hospice care. She wears her mammoth diamond ring and Gucci scarf, yet she has oxygen from a tube, which makes the picture of her skew. I have not been up to see her in a few months. The business moves so fast that it's hard to keep up. Designing women's bags and hats is practically an Olympic sport. I'm glad I have a valid excuse. I would want to stay away from my mother in any case.
The pillow behind her back won't settle how she wants it, so she throws it at a passing nurse. "Get me a bigger pillow, please," she says hoarsely. The nurse picks up the small pillow and shoots me a glance. It speaks volumes. It practically says, and I'm sorry, but it does, when is this bitch going to die already?
The nurse brings a bigger pillow, and my mother asks - no, orders - her to place it properly. The nurse tries. Nothing will satisfy. I assume the cancer makes her uncomfortable, and no proper placement of the pillow will fix that.
"Bring me my hairbrush," my mother croaks, "and hand me that little mirror."
I do as I'm told, as I always have with her. She brushes her blonde bob, reaches behind her, pulls out a lipstick from somewhere, and applies a tasteful coral color to her mouth.
"So, where have you been?" she asks. "You know they practically neglect you in here."
"I'm sorry, Mom," I mumble. She already knows where I've been. She knows the business is a bear, and she taught me to make it one. She was always working.
"Your sister has not been to see me; hasn't even called," she has found her voice now.
A plump and pleasant-looking woman knocks on the threshold of my mother's cubicle. "Hello, Mildred," she says to my mother. You and Julia are ready for the memory exchange?"
"I am," my mother says, her eyes scanning my face for a clue of something incriminating.
"I'm ready," I say. "Which one of us goes first?"
"Your mother goes first. She can transfer only one memory to you. Then, if she is up to it, you can transfer only one memory to her."
"They tell me your name is Laura," my mother says. "They told me to prepare. I did."
"Okay, Mildred, all three of us will drink some of this blue substance. Your memories will flow from you to me to the other of you. Let's begin. Please take a sip, each of you."
Laura wore a purple FLAX skirt and a starched white cotton short-sleeved blouse. Her hands were immaculately groomed. We all drank the Kool-Aid, so to speak.
"Lean back, Mildred," Laura said. "Get comfortable, Julia, as well. Please, everyone, close your eyes. Mildred, let your mind relax into your memory."
Suddenly, I felt as if I were my mother in this daydream. I stood outside a shack on a dirt patch. I wrung clothes and hung them on a line. My arms ached. Drops from the wet clothing fell and beaded on the sandy dirt, then dried almost instantly.
"Mildred?" my grandmother called from the shack door. "Come in here!"
I watched my feet carry me to my grandmother.
"Here is a dime. Pick up the supper food from Don Nelson's Market." My grandmother folded the dime in a small piece of cloth and folded that into my hand. She passed a market list to me. It said two cents of lard, three cents of flour, two cents of milk, three cents of ham.
"Okay, Mama," I heard myself say.
"Finish those clothes directly when you get back. Don't dawdle."
"Yes, Mama."
I watched my bare feet carry me down a long dirt road to the grocery store. My ankles and calves were dusty, and my homemade flour-sack dress showed wear.
I ordered everything as I was told.
"Is that two cents, or approximately two cents?" Mr. Nelson asked me about the lard.
"Two cents, Sir."
He placed a hunk of gelatinous white lard on a piece of wax paper and weighed it. He fussed with it for some time.
When it was time to pay, I opened my hand, which I had clasped closed so hard that my nails cut into my palm, and yet the dime was not there.
"What's the matter, Mildred?" asked Mr. Nelson.
"Good Lord. I've gone and lost the dime!" I said, and I began to weep.
"Now, now... You came straight here, right?" Mr. Nelson asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"Trace your steps back. You'll find it. I'll keep your groceries in the ice box."
Frantically, I walked the road back and forth. I saw my footprints where the dirt road was loose. I couldn't find the dime. I realized I sweated through my dress.
Finally, I went home, and Mama said, "Where is the supper food?"
"Mama, I lost the dime."
My grandmother began to scream, "Girl, don't you know there is a Depression on? Don't you know that is our only dime until Daddy gets paid?" She marched out to the yard and broke a switch from a bush. She marched back to me, grabbed me by the arm, and began to whip my legs, up and down, up and down until blood ran down.
"Please, Mama," I heard myself say, "I didn't mean to."
She slapped me across the face.
I woke up.
My mother woke up.
There were welts on my legs, but they quickly disappeared.
"Mom," I said. "You never told me that story. You all were so poor! And grandma was cruel."
"Well, now I told you," she said. She applied more lipstick. She took a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "And you were never poor," she mumbled, "I saw to that."
Laura poured some cold water for my mother and me. She looked shaken herself.
"And you, Julia? Did you prepare a memory for your mother?"
I sat in shock. I had meant to share a memory of her criticizing and demanding, drilling the importance of properly walking with a book on our heads for posture. I wanted her to feel how distant she felt to me. But now, I couldn't do it. Desperately, I searched my brain for a good memory. Somehow, I sensed Laura was helping me find one. I remembered and said, "I'm ready."
My sister and I were in the bathtub when we were four and five years old. My mother had bought the foam from a spritz can kids could play with in the tub. My sister used the foam first. She used it to make her hair stand up straight like magic. We laughed, all of us laughed and laughed. I used the foam to make myself boobies. This made my mother laugh so hard tears ran down her cheeks. "Lord, you girls," she said affectionately. "Finish up in here, and get ready for bed now."
I woke up.
My mother was smiling. She started to laugh. "We had so many good times, didn't we?" she said.
"Yes, Mother," I lied. How had I found that rare terrific memory? I usually only remember her coldness.
"Oh, I loved you girls," she said.
I bit my tongue. She was never home, and when she was, she was quick with the back of her hand. I glanced at Laura. She had peace in her eyes. Did I have peace? I wondered. Why can't I show her how she was... why my sister won't call... or visit? Wasn't that what this whole exercise was about?
I closed my eyes and listened with my mind. I remembered how hungry, skinny, and tired my mother was that day she gave me as a memory. She was cold and hard as a mother, with very few exceptions. But she always made sure we had enough to eat. She made sure we ate with proper manners, studied French, and did well in school. To her, she did a great job. To me, I just remembered the Iron Matron.
"Does this mean I will l die now?" my mother asked Laura.
"Not today, I believe," Laura said gently.
My mother closed her eyes. For some minutes, her breathing became ragged. She pulled the oxygen tube away from her nose. A nurse came in and gently replaced the tubing.
"Mom, there were nine of you kids, right? I mean, we only know Aunt Judy, but there were nine?"
"Yes, nine mouths to feed, and no money," my mother said. "How is business?"
"Business is very good. The fall line is selling as fast as we can make things. The designing houses are all angry that we don't move faster."
"And how is that husband of yours?" my mother asked.
"He's feeling better," I said. "The doctors think he'll make a full recovery. COVID is a bitch."
"Well, make sure he doesn't stray. They do, you know. They stray... the men."
Of course, I thought, a dig. Something for me to worry about. Something negative. As per usual.
"Get some rest now, Mom."
My mom closed her eyes. Laura winked at me. It was time to leave my mother in peace.
When I left my mother's room, Laura said, "Thank you for leaving her in peace."
"It's like I'm bursting with the memory I prepared," I said.
"I know. You were brave not to share it," she said, "Do you want to transfer the memory to me?"
I looked at her and felt her eyes to be honest and direct.
"We still have enough medicine in us for me to receive it by your just thinking of it," she said.
We sat down in the lounge. I nodded. We both closed our eyes.
I was nine years old. I was delivering newspapers. The July Saturday sweltered, and I was getting sunburned. I had ninety houses on my route. Our house was on my way, and I stopped to cool off.
"Did you finish your route?" mother demanded.
"No, ma'am, I'm getting some water."
"Don't be a baby," she sniped. She turned to me, her coral lipstick and false eyelashes ideally in place. You're babysitting next door tonight. I arranged it. Your lazy sister didn't want the job. You're old enough."
"The doctor said she's anemic and very underweight," I retorted. "She's just tired."
The back of the hand. SMACK. "Don't talk back to your MOTHER."
I opened my eyes.
Laura opened her eyes.
"You were working from a young age," Laura said.
"Yes, and all the years since. My mother is allergic to laziness." I paused. "Would she have experienced this memory the way I experienced it? You know? The fear and exhaustion and her coldness and her hardness? Or would she have been proud that she raised me to work hard?"
"It would have been difficult for her to see your view. That's one reason I hoped you would pick a different memory. I know how you felt, and I'm sorry."
"Even as she's dying, she wouldn't have understood," I said.
"I don't think she would," Laura said.
I hugged Laura and left the hospice. I got into my red Saab and sped away.
My two sons were doctors. I reflected on how they rarely called or visited, though I had never realized that before. What would they share with me at the end?
An original and challenging idea, interesting on so many levels and expertly written, with strong characters.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteWhat a beautiful, well written story. With so few words, you are able to write every character's perspective without being superficial. You have explored Julia's burden of resentments with both compassion and a critical eye. Wonderful, June!
ReplyDeleteThank you! I really appreciate your insights and kindness.
DeleteWhat a poignant and touching story!
ReplyDeleteThank you! I was hoping for poignant, not depressing, so thank you!
DeleteJune, this is such a marvelous, poignant story. In fact, in my on-line dictionary, under POIGNANT, they have posted a picture of you; you look good, girl! Seriously, though, this is a thought-provoking fiction, particularly the last lines, and it made me ask myself, how have I affected those in my life, in my sphere? It is semi-sci-fi, and you handled it so well, June! I’m always intimidated by science fiction because I have such a weak familiarity with science stuff, but you explained things in remote but sufficient and up-to-the-task ways. I mean, one needn’t know the chemical formula for glucose to know that it will elevate your blood sugar.
ReplyDeleteThis was a super read, June, but from you, I expected no less. Keep on keepin’ on writing, okay? All the best!
Bill, you are very kind. I’m thrilled you like it. And as I mentioned above,I was going for poignant (not depressing).So thank you!
DeleteThis is a touching and well written story. So much was communicated in so few words. Wonderful
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteYou took a very limited space and breathed life into it. So many feelings are swirling about and evoking many more of my own on top of it. One never knows why the people around us behave the way they do unless we talk about it. You took a deep dive and performed beautifully. -NK
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteThis is really beautiful piece about generational trauma. I especially loved the ending and how we realize that the narrator is a mother as well. The different layers of the family peel back -- the abusive grandmother to the mother, and then the abuse from the mother to the narrator. We are left wondering what (if anything) has happened between the narrator and her children. That felt quite honest and troubling. Well done.
ReplyDeleteYes! Generational trauma…thank you!
DeleteThere is such sadness in this story at the end. That turn is unexpected, but when it happens makes me rethink the entire story. I am sympathetic to the narrator and endeared to her when she chooses a softer memory for her mother. Then at the end I am saddened to see she has not realized until now that she had been some version of her mother with her own sons. I have hope that maybe she can undo the becoming of her mother. Loved this!
ReplyDeletewhat a sad,sad, story. But it made me wonder, what memories do my children have of me and what would they share?
DeleteI hope she can mend fences,too. Thank you!
DeleteThis story beautifully captures the complex emotions between a mother and daughter, blending sci-fi elements with deeply human experiences. The memory exchange concept is both poignant and touching, revealing the profound impact of past experiences on present relationships. A compelling and thought-provoking read!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sin! Thought-provoking is good.
DeleteJune, your last two previous stories on FOTW – and this one as well, probably – have met with a rich reception by readers, garnering 30 comments on one and 47 comments on another, certainly a FOTW record; I’m jealous! No really; you deserve the plaudits. I looked up June Wolfman on the web so I could peruse your other stories and got a Google reference to “Frankenstein vs. the Wolfman.” (!!). No mind, you were there too and I was lucky enough to read “The Walk” a story of assault, on Commuter Lit and was I ever glad that I did! I encourage all June Wolfman fans – which are accruing rapidly – to go online and read your really wonderful work. Thanks for graciously sharing your talent, June.
ReplyDeleteBill, thank you for reading The Walk. It is my favorite. Hugs to you
DeleteThis is an extremely clever idea. I can see it being used for other purposes. Maybe even ending wars. I loved it. Newt LEVIOSA
ReplyDeleteI love the idea behind it. I don't know that would have been as kind as Julia was to be honest. She was very brave. I love the way that you got their relationship to come across and an idea of why Mildred is that way. Great job!
ReplyDeleteThis story is amazing! It had me reflect on what I would have shared with my mom before she passed. Any story that can get me to so that is not short of great!
ReplyDeleteOh! That was a flash of my life with my mother! Never hugged or told she loved me or my sister. It made me cry and wonder what memory I would exchange with my mom, who is 99 and in my care.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written! Kudos to the author ❤️
This is a thought provoking, beautifully written story. The fraught relationship between mother and daughter is depicted like a painting where every brush stroke is essential, meaningful, and from the heart. I love how the premise of memory transfer is used to illuminate how tangled and painful the relationship between parent and child can be, how memories shape us, how shared memories can mean very different things to those that share them, and how we would like to be remembered. This story about memory is deeply memorable.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written and moving. A very original idea.
ReplyDeleteJune.....a well written and poignant piece. I found myself asking "what memories would I share?". The piece reminded me of how often I jump to judgement of others when I experience even the smallest slight....... cut off in traffic, or hear a rude remark. How can
ReplyDeleteI begin to understand the "other's" frame of mind if I don't have a full view of their current life situation let alone their past experiences! A reminder to us all to consider taking the "braver" path.........Phil A
I love the storyline, especially the reveal at the end of her being the same as her mother.
ReplyDeleteWow. This story brought me to tears and I found myself relating so much to the complex mother- daughter relationship. The author tapped into these emotions in such a personal way. Her writing is concise yet full of depth. A pleasure to read.
ReplyDeleteThere is so much in this compact little story filled with funny, semi-tragic moments, and rich and natural dialogue. At the center of the story is a daughter's epiphany that her mother suffered bitterly as a child during the Great Depression, which helps the daughter understand her mother's harsh parenting and driven work-ethic. The story has a dreamy, kind feel, and treats lovingly the three generations of women struggling as working mothers in this family. Like June's other stories, this one is infused with respect for science, positivism and forgiveness. It's a treasure.
ReplyDeleteFascinating, easy flow and concise. Thought provoling. Excellent read.
ReplyDeleteReading this as a parent makes me question our own past parenting, and simultaneously reminds us that our love for our children must be evident (specifically) when discipline is called for.
ReplyDeleteAnother wonderful work by June Wolfman!
At once, both thought provoking and emotion
evoking. How does she manage, in such an
accessible and seemingly effortless way, to
convey such insightful, deep and relevant
lessons? I am, once again, amazed at her
talent I look forward to reading more of her work in the future!
What a haunting story. Having cared for my mother through Alzheimer’s, including,
ReplyDeletehospice, There was so much here that resonated with me. How I would give anything to have been able to share a memory with her once she could no longer access her own memories. Given the epidemic of Alzheimer’s, the story may sadly be more universal than we want it to be.
Wonderful work. It's beautifully written and I love the storyline.
ReplyDeleteSuch a riveting story. Both my grandparents had Dementia. I understand wanting her mother to have a happy memory before she passed away. However, I wonder how much of the bitterness and resentment she had towards her mother did she passed on to her own children like her mother did with her. The cycle of trauma you don’t know you’re passing down until it’s too late.
ReplyDeleteA sadly honest story about how abuse gets passed down. A lot of abusers do not realize that they are doing the wrong thing and think they are just giving life lessons. Excellent and unforgettable story.
ReplyDeleteThis is an amazing story! I can see how the character's mother thought she was doing the right thing, but the pain in the main character is palpable. I have to believe that she will reach out to her own adult children and try to improve her relationship with them. The writing is wonderful and the emotions run deep.
ReplyDeleteLove the idea of deathbed memory sharing, and also really enjoyed how the emotions went to and fro. A short piece but really well written!
ReplyDeleteAn incredible insight into the opposing sides of abuse, how one's past shapes their future, as well as how try as we might it is not always easy to deviate from the path our parents put us on.
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed this story. Especially the part when she tried to think of something nice to share and also the plot twist(?) / hint at the end. Loved this! This could have been the start of a book series!
ReplyDeleteAt first I was a bit confused by what was happening; however it didn't take long for it to sink in what was happening in the story. There were times I felt the generational trauma...though maybe that wasn't the point, but that is what I got from this story. I was able to make my own connections to my life. It's strange to think about how we view those on a death bed, to give them an easy passing when really maybe we should be nice to ourselves for closure in that moment. I as the reader, wonder what would have happened as well if they had chosen to share a memory that was negative and more authentic.
ReplyDeleteThe memory exchange is such a lovely concept - it brings a truly human element to a genre that can sometimes be alienating (no pun intended). I loved the relationship built between the characters and the simple lesson of empathy and love.
ReplyDeleteGreat choice of topic, a real brain turner so to speak. My only suggestion would be around grammar/differentiating sentence starters, but other then that it was really interesting and each character was distinctly different. Awesome lesson interwoven through your storytelling as well
ReplyDeleteWhat a powerful story! It can be so hard to look past how other people have treated you to see why. The mom was very traumatized by her mother, but instead of going to therapy, she treated her daughters just the same. Generational trauma and abuse is a hard cycle to break. I hope the daughter sees the cycle and goes to therapy so she doesn't do the same thing. My mom experienced something similar with her mother and worked hard not to do the same. Amazing writing!
ReplyDeleteA very tender yet provocative story! It made me question what memory I would share with my children and what memory they would give back to me. Wonderfully written with heart and intention. I have read it twice, so far. I would love to read the sequel! Brilliant in expression!
ReplyDeleteThis was a really cool story, and definitely hit very hard. I actually started considering what I might share with my mother, or other loved ones, in this situation.
ReplyDeleteVery well done, June. I had the priviledge of sitting and talking with my own mother as she died. Sharing memories and closing out accounts from this lifetime. Your story brought back all the feelings and emotions of that day, and for that, I thank you. It was well researched for people from that period of time as well. I remember the stories of a large family with no food. I remember the lessons in penmanship and deportment and yes, walking with a book on my head. Thankfully, my mother never took on the cruelty that your heroine's mother did, but so many of the memories are heartbreakingly accurate. And as we are now entering that time of our own lives, it does make me want to take stock of what people would say to me on my deathbed. Thank you for a truly evocative piece of writing. I will remember it.
ReplyDeleteThis was a powerful story and really hit hard with the generational abuse. It really broke my heart, but I think you really nailed the mother/daughter relationship and then again with the mention of the sons at the end. The characters were flawed (in a good way). I think ending writing with a question is a little too on the nose. Maybe change it to more of a statement for impact. Otherwise, I think it was beautiful <3<3<3
ReplyDeleteThe writing was beautiful! You captured the generational abuse perfectly and it really tore at me the way "I" wasn't able to share her original memory with her mother, but finally had to share it with the nurse. I think it represents the conflicting emotions so well, good job!!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful, poetic prose that captures the heart of the story. I love how thoughtful the story is and equally provoking. It’s real and raw emotion with the quality of writing necessary to capture those emotions. Beautifully written!
ReplyDeleteExcellent story in one of my favorite genres: sci-fi with heart. It takes literally the saying about walking in another’s shoes and handles it masterfully. Imaginative, poignant and thought-provoking.
ReplyDelete— David Henson
Excellent writing. Powerful story. I want to read more from writer.
ReplyDeleteJune, I think you’ll agree that readers’ enthusiastic and heartfelt reaction to your fiction surpassed anything even you may have anticipated. I was struck by how readily everyone seemed to relate this story to their own lives and experiences with family. WISH commented that there exists a cycle of abuse, which is passed down. When I was a child, my BFF was physically abused by a monster of a father, for any or even no reason, and he subsequently passed this ritual of abuse down to his own progeny. Whether it was genetic or behavioral, the abuse persisted through generations.
ReplyDeleteMOUS and other readers said that your tale makes one wonder what memories they would share with others. A rather profound and telling question. MOUS also said that we often react or overreact to “a slight,” and I find this in myself as well, and battle against it.
And GEORGE was very eloquent in describing your story as a “painting where every brush stroke is essential, meaningful and from the heart.” I heartily agree. GEORGE must be a poet at heart.
I wonder if you find it curious that an unusual number of commenters chose to remain anonymous. I’m unsure why. Again, congratulations, June, on a total victory!
Bill, thank you. People told me which message was theirs. Many said they didn’t have their Google password at the ready to leave their name. Others said they didn’t know how to leave their name. One was paranoid to leave her name…lol. So that’s the story
DeleteBill, your story about your friend is very sad. Thank you for sharing it. GEORGE is my husband, and yes, he is poetic. Thank you for reflecting on people’s responses. It opens my eyes.
DeleteAh, what a creative way to nudge us to consider the perspective of those we tend to take for granted. Thank you for a thoughtful read.
ReplyDeleteI want to thank everyone who read this story and those who left comments. I so appreciate you all.
ReplyDeleteI expected a surreal sort of sci-fi which explains itself as it goes on. You did a great job making the story come alive from the perspective inside itself, with so many echoes of different perspectives, different people, different character voices, somehow so matter-of-fact and yet, also personal. I appreciate the way you could show, not tell, which I guess is what they were doing in the story, too. It felt like we were inhabiting that moment together as the characters' surroundings allowed them to embody someone else's life, not just look at a memory. Very touching and a little shaking. I liked it a lot. - Haru (couldn't figure out how to sign in)
ReplyDeleteA great example of how we don't always know what we think we know about each other. Well written as usual.
ReplyDeleteI found this story intriguing from the prospect of sharing a single memory. It provoked thoughts about which memory I would pick and also what memory either of my two kids would pass back to me. One always hopes you are doing right by your children and you never really know until they're out on their own; or until they question what you are doing and why you're doing it the way you are/did. --Wanda Magic
ReplyDeleteThank you, June. This story will stay in my mind for a long time. Perhaps the generational trauma is a way of condensing the more general enigma of how little we understand the effect we have on others. Really, who are we to the rest of the world? Such sacrifice in the daughter’s decision, so much love despite her pain.
ReplyDeleteThis is Rebecca and it’s hard to be anything but anonymous here - at least with my old iPhone.
The way in which they both view the same memory differently is such a well-done element!
ReplyDeleteI love that your writing style has such depth to it, yet is immediately accessible. A very touching story, yet as bitter as vinegar. Loved it.
ReplyDeleteConfronting and challenging, this short story smacks me with the force of Mike Tyson's upper cut and I can't, in all honesty, say that I enjoy that!
ReplyDeleteBeing the youngest and only daughter of a violent and abusive father, this cuts me right to the bone and expresses many of the fears and questions that have haunted me my whole life. It is reassuring, in a rather warped way, to know that others have had the same question-filled burdens to carry as well, I suppose. My two older brothers and I all worked through these traumas in very different ways. I chose silence and distancing - it seemed the least harmful for both of us - but I have not achieved forgiveness yet. Forgiveness is a kindness to the bestower. It’s not for the sake of the receiver. Forgiving is an opportunity to cleanse and move on. I would say learn too but forgiveness doesn't ever happen without a LOT of learning first! Sadly, it is still beyond my grasp. Someday, I will be strong enough to claim it and your story may well be a critical driving force in that process. I'm pretty sure it just might.
As to the writing, George has hit the nail on the head! Oil stokes are laid upon each other, carefully, forcefully, focused, emotional detailing without spelling it out: It's show, not tell. Watercolours, dreamy and intangible, spread between these focal points: They're needed for the reader's comfort but also artfully add to the necessary starkness of the messages. They allow the reader to breathe and think and breathe again. They allow the writer to tighten her grasp. It's beautiful, unusual art on the page! I admire it!
Though the storey bites with the bitterness of cyanide and the harshness of the hangman's noose that is all my problem! I thank you, most sincerely, June for sharing this with me! I'd like to read more of your work but I'll need a cup of tea and a good lie down first!
A story with such incredible depth and feeling. I was captivated by this and the ideas it presents and all in perfect narrative style. You balance the ability to present something complex simply with great emotion. I was very moved by this thought-provoking story.
ReplyDeleteJason Dimitris
ReplyDeleteJune, this was such an interesting story to read. I found myself wanting more memories from each of them because I wanted to learn more about these interesting characters. What a great concept! J.E. Dimitris
DeleteHi June, your amazing writing really opens my eyes. I had a complicated relationship with my mother. This story encourages me to try to imagine what her life was like growing up. Perspective and context is everything.
ReplyDelete