Mall Walker
Posted: September 9, 2010 Filed under: Aha!, Writers Write | Tags: loss, memory, perception, politics, writers, writing Leave a comment »Today I went to the mall. I couldn’t remember the last time. There are easier places to shop, and face it, if it isn’t available at the supermarket, it’s probably out of my price range. But today, the thing I needed required a mall.
North Star was once the epitome of cool. Was. I found an empty parking place next to Macy’s. Times have changed. When you walk around in your own Great Recession, self-preservation dictates geographic restrictions. Too painful to shop at Ann Taylor or Talbots? Go for half-off at Marshalls.
My old favorites are gone. No more Baby Gap or Pottery Barn Kids to waltz through. Sharper Image, Bombay Company, Picture People–no more. The bookstores disappeared long ago. Coach is still alive, along with Williams-Sonoma and The Brighton Store, but with their mark up, they can afford a few looky-loos. I was the only customer in J. Crew, despite Michelle Obama’s endorsement. Though, forty-three dollars for an embellished tissue tee is a reach for me. I’ll be scouring Target for the knock-off.
Nothing I’m saying is new. Those of us, formerly of the middle class, live with it. Everyone else can read about it on Huffington Post. But seeing is the shocker. This broken-hearted consumer forgot a maxim. When I can’t buy, they can’t sell.
I found what I went for, but I missed the mall of 1996.
The Clock
Posted: July 9, 2008 Filed under: Joined at the Heart, Mouths of Babes, Writers Write | Tags: family, loss, memory 2 Comments »We opened the pop-up camping trailer for the first time in a year. It’s pretty much the way we left it. After tossing a few moldy pillows, we discovered the rest wasn’t too worse for wear. Cherry checked out the cooking utensils. Inside the silverware drawer, she found the wind up travel alarm clock.
“Papa gave this to me.” She turned it over in her hands. “I remember that day. This came from his camper.”
The clock is square with a plastic cover that opens like a locket making its own stand. Cherry opened it, and turned it over to look at the face. Her eyes were glossy with memory. She adored her Papa, my father. A year ago he made this trip with us. He watched the girls play in the creek. He made them hot chocolate in the morning. He played Go Fish with Coco. He was alive. A few months later, he was gone.
This week we’re going without him, and I’m apprehensive. I can’t not go. He’d hate that. Yet going reminds me he isn’t. I saw all of my emotions flash across my eight year old’s face. It was more than I could bear without tears. Since I’m not a crier, I said, ”Put the clock back in the drawer. It’ll remind us of Papa while we’re camping.”
Cherry was obedient. She placed the clock in the drawer with the knives, forks, and spoons. I shoved the drawer shut and tried not to think about it. But it’s there, the loss as certain as the look on Cherry’s face, a tenderness too overwhelming to acknowledge.
When we get there, we’ll take the clock out and wind it, and we’ll remember.
