Someone once asked me how do you write directions to a memory. I can’t remember who asked, but I can tell you it might be a sound, like the click of the old screen door that marks the spot. Or the smell of lilacs and geraniums that says, you’re here, you’re back. Or they are. They planted honeysuckle, which remind you of sweet biscuits, to climb the trestle alongside the dog run. The flowers intoxicating the bees so completely, there is no danger of getting stung as you run to the back gardens. It might be the sound of a gravel drive under your car tires telling you, you’re home, Or a train whistle. Certainly, the sound of bagpipes drifting up from the river banks, that would do it. But so would the wind moving through an oak tree’s branches announce, you’re back or they are, your loved ones. It might be the sight of a red singled house with grey wooden porches. It could be a small hen, red, and a large dog, black, standing sentry at some gates. You’d be right to find them friendly. Once dusk opens, a porch light shining in a back yard will signal you’re in the right place. You’re back or they are, your loved ones waiting. It could be the sound of a voice, one you remember but never heard before, a stranger asking in a cadence that acts as bridge, as highway, as high speed rail, You’re all right there, are ya? You might think, sometimes, you can’t get there from here, but the directions come to you when you need them most. And you never need write them down.
Patricia Bender’s writing has been published by Paterson Literary Review, Switch, in THE GREAT FALLS ANTHOLOGY, and elsewhere. She’s received recognition in competitions offered by Cutthroat, Over the Edge, and The Allingham Festival. A National Writing Project Fellow, she serves as an editor of the New Jersey English Journal.
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