Frozen Memories

Hello and welcome to a tax-returns-would-have-been-due-today-if-today-weren't-Saturday Saturday here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is April 15th.

I haven't done much creative writing lately, so I pulled out my list of writing prompts and flexed some of those creative writing muscles. I could feel that I was out of shape, but as I got engrossed in the topic, the exercise drew me in. What does black look like? What is the theme connecting all these memories? Whatever happened to that boy?

Writing Prompt #125: Frozen: Write about a moment in your life you wish you could freeze and preserve.

I have a really silly memory I can’t share the details of with the general public that I froze and preserved when I was a 16-year-old visiting the University of Arizona in Tucson, Arizona. I distinctly remember my teen self saying, “Wow. Remember this,” and taking that mental snapshot. I know this memory preservation worked because whenever I’m in a similar situation in the present – as I was in that moment in Tucson – I think, “Gee, that was such a silly thing to put so much mental effort into.”

I wish I’d captured more sunsets. As a young child, I would sit on a porch swing perched right on the shore's edge of Round Lake watching the horizon fade from left to right, from blue to pink to nighttime black.

As a teenager, I did a lot of mental picture-snapping of the night sky. Growing up in Duluth, a friend and I would often drive to Hawk Ridge – an overlook off of Skyline Parkway. Yes, it was a boy, but it wasn’t like that. On those many, many nights, we talked about our days and dreams, about our hope and heartache, all while gazing out beyond Duluth nestled below us in the hills to Lake Superior, the Wisconsin horizon beyond that, and, of course, the night sky. 

This is where I learned of the regularity and frequency of satellites - a pinprick of light silently whizzing by on its singular trajectory. 

This is where I was a grateful witness to spontaneous zings across the sky – streaks of light like a single brushstroke across God’s nighttime canvas – of shooting stars. And the delight of a meteor shower, a quiet Fourth-of-July-like fizz of sparks for those who happened to be up late enough to catch the show.

This is where I watched clouds traverse the night sky and learned of the varied shades of black  – dark gray clouds on a night sky, full-moon night, half-moon night, summer sky black, winter sky black, rain on the horizon black, pregnant clouds black – and the many textures of black –chalkboard, silk, rippled, matte, bloated, billowed.

This is where I stared at the moon long enough to see “the man” in its face and his (or her?) reflection below.

This is where I wondered, only occasionally, if there would ever be a time when our stars aligned, this boy’s and mine, and there would be romantic love.

On some nights, the Northern Lights would make their showy appearance across the sky’s black stage. The conversation would dwindle to pauses, as we marveled at the vastness, magnificence, and meaning of this natural phenomenon.

Reflections on time and space. I’ve frozen and preserved enough to fill a photo album and many journals across my lifetime. 

A newborn’s foot tucked in the cradle between my thumb and index finger.

Running my cheek across an infant’s soft, fuzzy head of fine, wispy hair.

The sweet smell of a dozing, well-fed baby.

The weightiness of this little person swaddled and cradled in my arms. 

No worries, there is no “sixth baby on the way” reveal in this post. Just a lot of memories - a million mental snapshots capturing the moments before the sky lightens, the sun rises, the baby’s feet grow, the infant becomes a toddler, and the baby wakes up – ready to be changed and fed again.