This is How Memory Works by Patricia Hampl

This is How Memory Works

You are stepping off a train.

A wet blank night, the smell of cinders.

A gust of steam from the engine swirls

around the hem of your topcoat, around

the hand holding the brown leather valise,

the hand that, a moment ago, slicked back

the hair and then put on the fedora

in front of the mirror with the beveled

edges in the cherrywood compartment.

The girl standing on the platform

in the Forties dress

has curled her hair, she has

nylon stockings - no, silk stockings still.

Her shoulders are touchingly military,

squared by those shoulder pads

and a sweet faith in the Allies.

She is waiting for you.

She can be wearing a hat, if you like.

You see her first.

that's part of the beauty:

you get the pure, eager face,

the lyrical dress, the surprise.

You can have the steam,

the crowded depot, the camel's-hair coat,

real leather and brass clasps on the suitcase;

you can make the lights glow with

strange significance, and the black cars

that pass you are historical yet ordinary.

The girl is yours,

the flowery dress, the walk

to the streetcar, a fried egg sandwich

and a joke about Mussolini.

You can have it all:

you're in that world, the only way

you'll ever be there now, hired

for your silent hammer, to nail pictures

to the walls of this mansion

made of thinnest air.

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Today our CoP was all about memory (ies). We were all diving into the many layers of how we perceive and experience memory. We talked about how memories remain elemental to our sense of being. How it corrupts, is corrupted, and remains corrupt. And how we use this capricious piece of cognitive abstraction to bring meaning to our lives. And before I could listen to all I had to leave the session early to attend the commemoration of Shri. Chembur Sukumaran Nair, a teacher, writer and from what I understood, a wonderful friend to all he had touched. I never knew the man, except that he's the father of Aravindan sir. But when I reached the venue of commemoration, and as I listened to all those people remembering him, I realised I was indeed attending an extension of our virtual CoP session. Now I was listening to the memories of people; friends, colleagues, family, and students. They were all remembering a man, who I don't think was a saint, but an ordinary man who cared enough to make his every gesture a saintly touch that left indelible imprints on lives. And what more could make a life meaningful than this? And it made me think, contrary to what I felt was the dominating thought of this morning, that memories are but false constructs that our minds conjure from the thinnest air to add and omit layers to our reality, memories could be real. Sure, a memory may undergo wear and tear over the years, but I believe its kernel remains the same nonetheless. A memory retains its originality in its nuances, which will resist any attempt to corrupt its essence. I think it is this resistance of our memories to preserve their integrity that keeps us alive rather than the memory itself. After all, it is the anchor that holds us together, in place, offering us a choice between life and oblivion. 

    - Harishna