Black Boxes. Caroline Smailes

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      One day it would fall to the ground.

      I knew that each time that I pushed the gate.

      That one time it would be the last.

      That one day the hinges would separate.

      They would crumble.

      They would dissolve to dust. And the twisted wrought iron, with the thick paint broadening the bars would fall to the ground.

      [sound: foot banging on the ground]

      But I never saw that happen.

      You had moved on.

       ~And do you remember what you did?~

      I don't understand why I remember and you don't.

      I often wonder if you have altered the events within your memory.

      Or if the memory even exists.

      Record.

      Retain.

      Recall.

      It should be straightforward.

      No twists, no kinks.

       ~Does the memory exist?~

      My memories go backwards forwards.

      You see.

      The words are crisp and fresh.

      My memory is precise.

      But.

      I don't know if it is accurate.

      I don't know if my memory is working.

       ~How can I test to see if my memory is working?~

      [silence]

      When you opened the door you hugged me.

      I can see a me and a you.

      In between the twisted wrought iron gate, with the thick paint broadening the bars and your front door.

       ~What colour was your front door?~

      I can't remember.

      My memory plays trickery.

      Its illusions confuse me.

      I remember the hug.

      I can see the hug.

      I can recall the tightness.

      My body was stiff in reaction.

      And your arms gripped around me.

      All the way around.

      Tightly.

      Forcing down the arms of a me.

      A me holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag.

      And I remember crying into you.

      The memory carries a sensation.

      A dampness.

      Coldness on my cheeks.

      I can still feel it.

      The smell of sandalwood and drugs.

      I can still smell you.

      And then you said, everything is going to be ok.

      And you said it in those ailing soft and sugary tones.

      And the tone had warmth.

      A mushiness that I didn't recognise, at that time.

      I have since learned to consider it with revulsion.

      [sound: a guttural laugh]

      But your front door.

      That front door.

       ~Was there glass?~

      I must keep this image simple.

      No glass.

      No glass.

       ~Was the door an inky blue?~

      I don't think so.

      I can't remember.

      I can't recall.

      The colour has beenblinked away.

      Let's say that it was red.

      Let me fill in the colour.

      [five second silence]

      The memory needs to be perfect.

       ~What good is a memory if it is not perfect?~

      Perfection.

      I must notblink again.

      You use those ailing soft and sugary tones with me now.

      Every now and then.

      When we speak on the telephone.

       ~When we have to speak on the telephone.~

      You stopped coming to see me.

      I caused one fuss too many.

      I embarrass(ed) you.

      One time too many.

      I disgust(ed) you.

      My body.

      My smell.

      My look.

      They all cause repulsion.

      Your word not mine.

      [sound: sobbing]

      If you sniff into my armpit.

      If you nuzzle your nose into my soft hairs.

      You will smell you.

      The water within my body is full of you.

      The secretions are as you try to escape.

       ~Go on sniff yourself back.~

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