I Remember

 

I remember the big black stove fed

with kindling and paper to fire up

its oven and downstairs in the

cellar an open wooden stall holding coal

poured into the cellar through an 

outside chute then shovelled into

the yawning mouth of the furnace in

winter. I remember the kitchen icebox

and the iceman's daily deliveries

chiselling huge blocks of ice behind

his horse-drawn cart and steaming

piles of ordure carefully sidestepped.

I remember the concreted playground

of the school, the separate entrances

for boys and for girls, the early morning

showers and meals offered to children

from poor families. I remember how my

heart leaped when I first saw a green

city park. I remember my mother winding

my long hair freshly washed, around

strips of cloth. I remember my mother

slapping my face when I blurted that my

uncle fondled me strangely. I remember

a burly boy threatening me, another

calling after me: Christ-killer! I remember

a teacher chastising me for threatening

a boy who frightened my little sister.

I remember walking long distances on

major city streets on my way to my early

evening history, language and geography

lessons at the secular parochial school.

I remember at age 14, 71 years ago, seeing

a boy my very age familiar to me from my

dreams. Are your memories like mine?