‘’Cuimhne”
Where are you from, darling?
Tucked away in the outskirts of Limerick I met a woman whose name I cannot remember. Trees surround her home like an army whose sole purpose is to quietly watch and protect. She is in her eighties, alone in the quiet greenery. The flowerbeds exhale quietly and the leaves make music with the wind. Each day she tends to her garden, breathing life into that which cannot speak, but sounds like the wild life she led.
Who is your mother, darling?
Photographs and picture frames and photo albums spread all throughout the house tell the stories she cannot. Her early life seems like something from an old Hollywood movie. She poses with handsome GAA players and important men in suits, which makes me think she was a hot shot back in her day. Her bold lipstick and eyeshadow somehow bleed color through the black and white photos. Today, she is wearing a floral blouse and dress pants with a classic red lip and sky blue pigment smeared on her eye lids. This must have been her routine for ever, to do her hair and makeup this way, because she was not expecting my visit yet she looked prepared to walk a red carpet.
Where do you come from, dear?
She used to be bright for her old age. Head injury, they said. She fell and hit her head and now she can’t remember what you told her a few seconds ago. She asks me where I am from every time she finishes speaking. Yet she remembers her childhood and adolescence as if she lived through them just a few hours ago. She recalls the ghosts of her past like one recites names while flipping through a phone book.
As she tells me stories all I can focus on is her red lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Her signature look she has kept for decades. I wonder who else has come to visit her recently, or if anyone does at all. I admire how peaceful her life is, that despite such tragedy, she lives happily in the damp brush of tall grass and weeds, applying her lipstick and planting her flowers. I imagine what it must be like to not speak out loud for days, maybe weeks. Do all her days blend together into one? Does she often replant roses in the same spot she did yesterday? I ask her who comes to check on her, and she asks me where my mother comes from. I ask her where her children live now, and she asks me for my name. She has offered me tea several times now, and although I hate the taste, I choke down five cups just to keep her company.
Her stories I cannot remember, but I will always remember how bright her lipstick was, and how beautiful she looked wearing it. Some may say she is cursed with the agony of forgetfulness, but I believe she is blessed to be living the rest of her life engulfed by her fondest memories.
