Madison Ross ‘22 “A Practice for Permanence”

I remember staring at the pavement and shifting my focus throughout the speckles of light below me, wondering how they had captured such constellations in the concrete. The bulbs of light, planted in the ground, illuminated the surface and radiated up into the night that blanketed the park. I remember feeling alone in the moment. Though, looking back, I’m certain that my family was within reach.

My hand was holding onto the handle of a cheap souvenir from one of the gift shops. My thumb rested on a button that—when pressed—would tell the top part to theatrically spin and light up. Though fascinating, my attention was elsewhere. Crouched down, I couldn’t bear to look anywhere but the light-freckled pavement.

This is my earliest memory—or, rather, what I claim to be my earliest memory.

Memory, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, can be defined as “the perpetuated knowledge or recollection (of something); that which is remembered of a person, object, or event.” Memory makes fleeting moments and experiences retrievable—ever-present in a catalogue, awaiting our conscious selection.

Perpetuated. Only, not so.

As if to prove some type of power through forced, accelerated impermanence, Alzheimer’s took hold of my grandmother’s memories and held them hostage for much of my life. Locked behind closed doors, moments decayed and faces frayed at the edges. Her memories of me were among the prisoners.

She might not have remembered our shared moments, our relationship, or my name, but something in her eyes and outstretched hand showed me a sense of familiarity. She still had a glimpse at what was locked away—even if only a stream of light leaking out beneath the door.

To not remember is terrifying. When my monotonous days seem to leak into one another—the ink of Monday bleeding out, staining Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday—I often find myself not remembering. The inability to recall fills my brain with static, a deafening absence of what should be readily available. Static. A placeholder for what once was, isn’t anymore, and never will.

Today? Yesterday? I grow fearful of my memoryless-ness.

My Dad likes to keep track of memories tangibly. I envy him for that. He’s been keeping a journal for as long as I can remember. Looping his way through life’s moments, he fills each leather-bound book with inky, cursive letters. This leather is worn. Its softened shell shows his repeated recollection. Memory bound by the tactility of word and page, confined by the lines that frame it.

The bitter reality of my grandmother’s state was that she would never again fully see what was locked behind that door. Streams of light sneaking through the cracks would tell her that she knew me and she loved me, but the obstruction prevented any more defined knowledge: my name, my age, the connection that brought us together.

Images of my mother working through thick books of crossword puzzles and Sudoku. My boredom and need to be involved led me to my own book of crossword puzzles and Sudoku. Mine, however, remained empty. I lacked an ulterior incentive. Years later, with the surge of technology, her games shifted to the screen of an iPad—word games, color games, virtual puzzles to be completed. She spends each night chiseling away at the mental exercises, as if driven by a need. Perhaps, it is a practice for pleasure alone. The mere rush when the timer runs out. The excitement when a finished puzzle comes to life, dancing across the screen. Or, perhaps, it is a practice for permanence. To ensure that what is there remains. Something to stretch the inner mind, tidy the long-abandoned corners of the brain, and prepare for future, effortless recollection.

While watching my mother figure out where on the screen to place the rounded piece, three protruding limbs waiting to be linked to its neighbors, I didn’t realize just how terrifying it could feel. To be working against a force that may or may not take over at any moment. An erosive power—one that gnaws on past smiles, names, endeavors, and disposes of the crumbs.

I have heard that no matter how ardently one postpones the decay of memory, it often arrives, sneakily at first, then unavoidably all at once.

Memory lives in other, less human places too. Often, more permanently so it seems. The memories deep within the workings of my laptop allow me to use my mother’s credit card despite almost one hundred miles between us. It holds memories of me. My preferences, hobbies, and frequently visited locations. It reminds me of its memories—giving suggestions each time I type or search, telling me how long it will take to drive to what it assumes to be “home.”

The worn leather is also found in the corner of the couch, holding a memory of my dog—endless afternoons spent absorbing the sun’s warmth while melting into the smooth, brown cushion. His small body curled up atop a softened space, slowly seeping into its seams.

I saw a photograph that captured the exact moment of my first memory—slipped into a clear plastic sleeve, stashed away in the album dedicated to our first—and last—trip to Disney World, and placed on a shelf that gets little attention. I was startled—embarrassed—to see such an intimate memory captured so concretely. I wondered if my “memory” had only ever been my brain’s attempt at crafting a story behind this photo. Had I seen this photograph before? Was I actually remembering this moment?

I’d like to say I remember actually existing in that moment, but I know that memory is much more messy than that.

Growing up, I would beg my Dad to share some of his childhood memories with me each night before bed. He would tell me about his days working as a lion tamer, and how he still had the brush he once used to brush the lion’s mane if I wanted to see. I did, of course. He told me about the rocket ship he and my grandfather had built together that sadly crashed-landed in a field somewhere in Pennsylvania, never making it to space. He told me about the talking fish he caught in a pond not far from his backyard.

I can’t tell you exactly where the lines between memory and fiction fell—where fiction filled in the spaces between recollection. Or, if there was any element of memory at all. But, in the moment, they seemed real. They seemed remembered. And that was all that mattered.

Works Cited:

"memory, n." OED Online, Oxford University Press, March 2021,

www.oed.com/view/Entry/116363. Accessed 23 April 2021.