Burning Memories

I'm reading One for Sorrow, the premier novel of Youngstown State University professor (and family friend) Christopher Barzak. I'm enjoying it greatly, and recommend it highly.

Some of his words jumped off the page at me on Saturday, relative to Klaire's statement to me the other day about looking to the future, not to the past.

One of the characters in the book is the ghost of a teenager, Jamie, who died. He's present in the bedroom of Adam, the protagonist.

Jamie says to Adam that sometimes he gets so cold he has to burn memories to get warm again.

"Burn memories?" I said, and [Jamie] nodded, looking down into his lap. "What does that mean?"

He lay down on my bed and started tossing and turning, his arms crossed over his chest, his face pinched as if he were in pain. "Yes," he said and, "I love you," and, "Why? Why? Why?" and, "Anything, anything, just let go."

I smelled something like hair burning. I couldn't see any smoke, but the room filled with the scent. His face contorted, the muscles bunched beneath his skin, his hands clenched his shoulders, and then—bam!—it was over. The smell of burned hair fled the room, gone in an instant, and the gash near his temple began to change. His face smoothed over, his skin flushed pink with heat. It was like he was alive suddenly, which made me think maybe he didn't have to be dead, that maybe we could find a way to make him live again.

"What memory did you burn?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know. It's gone now. I couldn't remember if I wanted."

I fantasized about being able to burn memories, to take the ugliness that happens to us in our lives and turn it to ash and brush it away. Would we then be able to trust as if we'd never been hurt?

If I could burn my memories, where would I start?

I'd take my brothers' teasing and burn it. Then I wouldn't feel so upset and dumb when people who care about me tease me. So many people see teasing as fun and loving. I see it as cruel and hurtful.

I'd take the horrible words my mother said to me and burn them. Then I'd have a security I've never felt, and stop abandoning people before they have the opportunity to abandon me.

I'd take this hurtful incident and that one and burn them and brush them away. But then I wouldn't be who I am today, because all those memories, both good and bad, allowed me or forced me to develop as I have.

We're over 50. We have memories. We have "baggage." We try to keep it all together in one closet and avoid bringing those heavy bags out into the open. And we try to keep it contained in one closet rather than having it take over every available space in the houses that are ourselves.

But it is tempting to think about the possibility of burning the hurt and pain and having those parts of us replaced with new-baby-skin, pink and fresh, untouched and supple.