The Memory That Sticks - Kate Bueler

The memory that sticks is not the one I intended. As she- me- flips through the photos of what was, what still is, and what may be. The memories stick to you like the old photographs taken in what they will one day call the old fashioned way with the archaic film. I try to pull those photos apart but they stick on me. Stick on me. Just like trying to remember when. When this photo was taken. A childhood is created in words of others telling you what were like, fuzzy memories of what you think you remember but you aren’t sure for what were the stories others told you and what our your own memories. Blending. But some of these memories stick in a way you aren’t sure where they belong or if they are yours in the first place.

The first time I remembered. I remembered I was twelve. Twelve years old. I stomped down the stairs of our duplex house with a memory I couldn’t shake, one I couldn’t get rid of but not knowing where it came from. The picture stuck in my mind was a place. A place. That had tons of locks running up and down the door. A big tall door and tons of locks. And I remember my mothers face. I was there in that memory with my mother. So I run down nonchalantly making my entrance, short and skinny and full of ambition to be the first women president, dad, so where did I go with mom with all the locks on the door. I would have asked her. But she was not there. And hadn’t been for sometime. But even as a child, I was beginning to realize fact checking with her was an epic fail.

The 6th grade self bubbled around my dad waiting for an answer. I saw my father’s eyes and in an instant I knew this memory was mine. Not borrowed form the twilight zone or someone else’s head-it was mine. Stuck to me. His eyes spoke a serious tone I had not seen for years. Years ago when the Bueler v. Bueler then Sullivan battle occurred. When they decided they were through and the final two items to fight over was me and my brother (fortunate for him he was a baby so no one asked him many questions). I waited. He looked at me and said the words that could have changed my life then not now, your mother took you on vacation and never came back.

My eyes opened into disbelief as other memories began to pour into the cotton candy and caramel soaked mind of a child. I didn’t doubt my father for an instant. And as he spoke the memories that had been stored away, stored away to protect my 5 year old self came back like the slideshow of years past. Repression was my sanctuary. Holding my blanket to my chest with my musical shoes that upon pressing the button played a tune.

The place where we were was a women’s shelter (one of two). My mother had run away on a vacay gone permanent and the hosts booted us once they figured out her plan. The dinner table and yelling flashes before my eyes. Scene switch. New location. And then the locks. And rules. Not being able to eat past a certain time. But my mom sneaking cheerios into bed. They fell in the bed and sticking to the sheets. Stuck in my head. Sticking to me. To walking on the street. And wondering why men would come to this place and yell outside. Fear. Still there. Felt now. As my father spoke. About his chase to find us and the running to the next place. Scène changes again. And the room. We stayed in bunk beds with another mother and daughter. It darkens. And I see the light of my grandfather’s face. They had found us. I remembered that now. Now I did and dressed up per my mom’s request- I jumped in that gray pick up truck in the cab next to him warm I was and safe I was. Safe I would always be with him. It didn’t matter what happened next. Because they had found me. I didn’t find my way onto a milk carton. I found my way home.