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Berlin Wall Mitte
Some days the awful weight of memory sends us slope-shouldered through the world. How is it possible for memory to generate so much gravity? It has no substance, after all – no more substance than a shadow. And like a shadow, memory is always ready to return.
There are memories I’d like to pack up like a shabby suit and take to the cleaners. Let them be laundered and patched, let them be hand-pressed and stowed in an antiseptic bag, let them be carefully hung on a rack, spotless and unsullied, and let them stay there. Let me lose the claims ticket and let those laundered memories remain suspended forever. Like a shadow in a lightless room.
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