Woman's Memories

There is a hole in my head, in my memory, in my memory of things.

Like the criminally insane dosed up with shock-after-shock treatment,

Someone has blown away important, essential memories.

Left black holes where there should have been…what? I was going to say light but, also…significant darkness, owned darkness, darkness and light that were mine.

All these, these black holes, these absences of memory aren’t mine – they’re evidence of theft.

My memories are my stolen generation, wrenched from my desperate arms.

See…

I can’t remember – ever – ever - being a little girl…ever.

Can’t remember my first school tunic, can’t remember my black patent party shoes with the straps that came off.

Can’t remember Miss Williamson saying, “P-a-u-l-a K-a-y-e, come up here, now, and write the answer on the board”. Why?

I can remember my first doll, her name was Mary Lou – but I can’t remember why they said I couldn’t keep her.

I can’t remember being a teenage girl – gawky and gangly, straight-up-and-down and spurned even by the nerds; my breasts embarrassing little points and my face as poxy as a harvest of sin. Or can I? Sometimes I think it was yesterday but that couldn’t be right…could it?

I can’t remember my first period. Can’t remember standing up in class and all the boys behind me hooting with disgust and derision. I can’t remember that.

I can’t remember my wedding dress, my bouquet of white roses. Can’t remember the look of adoration in your eyes as I walked, slowly, awkwardly - I thought - up the aisle.

And I can’t remember being pregnant, my back aching to the marrow; going to the toilet…again and again. Can’t remember my flushed face, the deep contentment and the fear. Can’t remember the first contraction and the last; crushing your hand in mine, screaming at you, at the world. Can’t remember the end, the beginning; can’t remember you, pink and tiny and shrivelled, still damp on my belly, between my breasts. Utterly beautiful beyond any beauty I had ever, ever seen.

Why can’t I remember you, remember your name, you…my dearest, dearest first child?

Strange, I do remember my first boyfriend – I just can’t remember why he was fifty-five…or I was fifty. I can’t remember what I was doing all those years…before I was fifty.

Someone has taken away my memories and given me someone else’s.


There is one thing I remember though.

I remember my first high heels.

And I remember…they were white, peep-toe, mid-heel, secret, hidden, furtive, shameful, dirty, sick, perverted…guilty.

But I can’t remember why.


And I’m not sure quite what to do.

About these memories…these un-memories.

About being a woman who hasn’t got a woman’s memories.


But I remember yesterday...the soft, soothing touch of your gentle hand on my bare neck...and the love in your eyes.

And tomorrow I will remember today.