Posts Tagged ‘memory’

Rainy Day Memories

June 14, 2010

My memories are like the rain, sometimes they sneak up on me and when I least expect it, drench me with a downpour.

Other times they are a gentle sprinkle, light and refreshing.

Then comes a storm of memories moving in, rumbling and grumbling and striking with lightening, splitting the sky with a white dagger, thunderclaps overhead, the sky the black bowl of a big base drum, no tinkling triangle or clinking windchimes now.

Some days the memories rain down steady, dreary, constant, on and on, boring and oppressive and without any let up in sight.

Now and then there’s a refreshing rain of good times remembered, followed by sparkling pavement and a fresh scent of renewal.

Every summer there’s a long dry spell, a draught, the grass and leaves curling and turning brown, and people ask each other, “Think it will rain today?” “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Then the skies darken and the clouds gather and the rain soaks the earth, like a sudden memory that will not go away.

And yet, somehow, even that storm passes, and you come in out of the rain, to where it is dry, and bright, and safe, and warm.

By Kerry Ellen © 2010


My Christmas Moments

November 21, 2008



Every year I wait for it – I call it “my Christmas moment”.  Each year it is different, but it is always met with a sigh of relief, “Yes, this is what Christmas means to me…”

   …40 years ago it was walking miles all over town, in the freezing cold, with my best friend, delivering dime store Christmas gifts to our school friends…

   …One year it was when I was shopping on a small town’s Main Street, singing “Jingle Bells” to myself…I had just bought a favorite nephew an old fashioned felt cowboy hat that I knew he would love…

   …It happened the first year my niece and I were “fudge fairies” making Gramma’s fudge , with the special secret ingredient…

   …Another time it was reading about the Moomintrolls’ Fir Tree, how Christmas wasn’t about all the hurrying and scurrying so much as leaving gifts for others, even strangers, to enjoy, on a quiet winter’s eve…

   …Last year it was bringing my son and his grandma together again, for a meeting-despite-the-miles-apart…

…And this year it was re-reading Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory”, reminded of that wonderful story by my dear friends at Soul Food Café…It is almost “fruitcake weather” now – and I can hardly wait!


By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Fire Lily

June 13, 2008


Softly whistling as it shoots upward,

Bursting in a sparkling display

Of color, design, and gracefulness,

The fire lily brilliantly blooms

In the hot summer night sky.

It twinkles for a few moments,

And then is sifted slowly into the darkness,

Blown away on the breeze,

Gone except for the memory.


I wish upon each falling star

That I may follow in its shining arc:

Subtle in my ascent,

Glorious in my brief moment,
Graciously fading away…


© 1982 Kerry Vincent






The Lost Child

June 13, 2008

Still as the roots of a tree she sits, staring off into space.  She holds her sadness close to her, like a beloved doll or teddy bear.  She shows no emotion, but she rubs her thumb roughly back and forth over her index finger constantly.  Each memory is a stinging slap on her cheek, a hot poker on her bare skin.


Years before someone had commanded, “Leave her alone, she’s dead.”  So she walked away from herself, from her own childhood, nevermore to return.  She grieves alone, in silence now, not sure what she has lost, but missing it all the same.


The child she left behind is still asking for her help, for someone to listen, for someone to comfort her, to believe her, to make the monsters go away.  She tells the girl to be quiet – no one cares.  “Quit crying.  Don’t be a baby.”


Every now and then, she lets the little one sit with her, coloring pictures are her feet.  As long as she is good and quiet and doesn’t ask for anything.  If she speaks, the child is shoved back in the closet again.


She says she doesn’t know any little girls, never has, doesn’t want to.  She doesn’t like children.  No one would want her for a mother.  Maybe, someday, she could love a child – be kind and nurturing – if caring did not hurt so much – or feel like a weakness – if love did not seem so impossible – and especially, if the little girl, did not look so much like her mother.

by Kerry Vincent (c) 1993