Black Boxes. Caroline Smailes

why I remember and you don't.

      I often wonder if you have altered the events within your memory.

      Or if the memory even exists.

      Record.

      Retain.

      Recall.

      It should be straightforward.

      No twists, no kinks.

       ~Does the memory exist?~

      My memories go backwards forwards.

      You see.

      The words are crisp and fresh.

      My memory is precise.

      But.

      I don't know if it is accurate.

      I don't know if my memory is working.

       ~How can I test to see if my memory is working?~

      [silence]

      When you opened the door you hugged me.

      I can see a me and a you.

      In between the twisted wrought iron gate, with the thick paint broadening the bars and your front door.

       ~What colour was your front door?~

      I can't remember.

      My memory plays trickery.

      Its illusions confuse me.

      I remember the hug.

      I can see the hug.

      I can recall the tightness.

      My body was stiff in reaction.

      And your arms gripped around me.

      All the way around.

      Tightly.

      Forcing down the arms of a me.

      A me holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag.

      And I remember crying into you.

      The memory carries a sensation.

      A dampness.

      Coldness on my cheeks.

      I can still feel it.

      The smell of sandalwood and drugs.

      I can still smell you.

      And then you said, everything is going to be ok.

      And you said it in those ailing soft and sugary tones.

      And the tone had warmth.

      A mushiness that I didn't recognise, at that time.

      I have since learned to consider it with revulsion.

      [sound: a guttural laugh]

      But your front door.

      That front door.

       ~Was there glass?~

      I must keep this image simple.

      No glass.

      No glass.

       ~Was the door an inky blue?~

      I don't think so.

      I can't remember.

      I can't recall.

      The colour has beenblinked away.

      Let's say that it was red.

      Let me fill in the colour.

      [five second silence]

      The memory needs to be perfect.

       ~What good is a memory if it is not perfect?~

      Perfection.

      I must notblink again.

      You use those ailing soft and sugary tones with me now.

      Every now and then.

      When we speak on the telephone.

       ~When we have to speak on the telephone.~

      You stopped coming to see me.

      I caused one fuss too many.

      I embarrass(ed) you.

      One time too many.

      I disgust(ed) you.

      My body.

      My smell.

      My look.

      They all cause repulsion.

      Your word not mine.

      [sound: sobbing]

      If you sniff into my armpit.

      If you nuzzle your nose into my soft hairs.

      You will smell you.

      The water within my body is full of you.

      The secretions are as you try to escape.

       ~Go on sniff yourself back.~

      I still have you within me.

      [sound: sniff sniff sniff]

      You stopped coming in to my flat.

      You arranged to pick the children up from downstairs.

      From outside.

      From out of my view.

      I can't see you from here.

      I don't like to leave my black box.

      I have no reason to leave it.

      But.

      Sometimes you telephone and you must speak to me.

      And you use those ailing soft and sugary tones.

      Your tone is soft and warm.

      You pretend to care.

       ~You were always good at pretending.~

      Because there is always a reason for your telephone call.

      There is always a need within your telephone contact with me.

      Gain.

      You seek to gain.

      The gain is never mine.

      I have nothing to gain.

      I have nothing outside of this black box.

      My children exist within my memories.

      They are no longer real.

      They died.

       ~I know that they still breathe.~

      They died within my life.

      They exist within memories that I prefer not to visit.

      You left.

      You left us all.

      I cannot recall memories after you left.

      I choose not to force them.

      I cannot open the door.

      I cannot communicate outside of my box.

      This box.

      My black box.

       ~Can you hear my words?~

      [silence]

       ~Am I trapped?~

       ~Do I have an alternative?~

       ~Is there a resolution to be found?~

      The