The Always Page

I remember my 11 year-old self. I sit by the living room window peeking past the splash of an autumn downpour. There’s a clicking in my brain, like the IBM electric on which I’m learning to type. The clicking’s a hammer of too fast and not enough. My favorite book, The Secret Garden, soothes on my lap. I’m rocked by the lull of ten-year-old Mary Lennox’s astonishing discovery. Mary opens the iron door unlocking the walled-in garden for the first time. As she passes the massive stone walls, Mary sees life’s potential burst and shine. The hammer lifts then rests.

I remember my 14 year-old self. I'm cutting 5th period gym. There's a church-hush in the empty auditorium. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is alive in my hands. Francie realizes that the binds of her poor and isolating childhood are not permanent. The tree will grow again. As Francie says goodbye to her younger self, I close the book in slow reverence. This book isn't on my English Lit class list. It came from the shelves in my favorite room at home. My father's den is tucked away in the basement, next to the furnace. The rows of dusty spines beckon. The Iliad, A Clockwork Orange, Of Mice and Men, The Complete Works of Shakespeare. These friends come with me on the bus to dance class, under my covers with a flashlight, to this auditorium and the stark wooden chair-backs. I sink in glory with each spine cracking open.

I remember my 25 year-old self. I'm alone in my New York City apartment. The stink of dog feces rises from the hot sidewalk on St. Mark's Place and 1st Avenue in front of my five floor walkup. My two room apartment has a closet big enough to sit in. I recline on pillows between my platform shoes and Frye boots. I hold my tattered copy of The Secret Garden. It's an original hardcover 1911 edition with color photo plates. The only gift I kept from my mother. I haven't spoken with her in three years. The hammering is intolerable. Real people are not like book people. There is no special key that closes me in or keeps them out. My garden is hollow and dry. I hate Mary Lennox and her smug happily-ever-after. I hate her indulgent attention to the Iris buds. I hate her cloying rosy cheeks. I leave the book on the street on top of a black garbage bag and a chair with three legs.

I remember my 39-year-old self. My son is four years old. The clicking has turned to song. I sit on his miniature tiger couch from Target. He leans into my side.

“Mama, tell me a story.”

“Once upon a time there was a ten-year-old girl named Mary Lennox.”

My son lays his head in my lap. I stroke his baby-smell hair. I recite Mary’s story from start to finish, without turning a page.