Working Again

I find that so much of my life is continuing to weave into Asha's book, as it is also a story of my own parallels to her (it is hard to describe unless you see the excerpts from it). Tonight I began with writing about her memorial display in front of the Ben Lomond Market just after she died. There were (weirdly, I guess) some fake poinsettias next to her picture, and (true to a writer's obsession with small details), I tried to remember if the poinsettas were made of felt.  Then I went on to write about the things we forget: the little details of life from our childhood, from the time spend with a loved one, from all of our existence.  I tried to memorize m's house--the only truly safe place I had ever known since I was 22 years old--because of the safety, the small beauties there, and am glad I did: I can summon it up entirely, at least in the way it was then. I can clearly go back to my childhood home and "walk" there.  I guess it is a gift to have such a good memory, at least for writing.

I  remember that her memorial "altar" outside the market was heaped with container candles, toys for a baby who would never be born, Polish flags, flowers, those artificial poinsettas.  I went and placed a rose from my garden there, a very unique rose because it blooms in early autumn and its blossoms never look the same way twice/  It's basically pink, but the shape of the blossom changes every year, a Gemini flower.  I remember cutting a single pink rose and putting it at the market memorial.  What I remember is one thing, so clearly: I was in shock, and