Recall

The human memory can be a beguiling thing. Like when someone dies. Everyone magically forgets that Aunt Linda in the casket there was a raging alcoholic that verbally abused anyone who was unfortunate enough to brush up against her.

But sure, let's shower the dead woman with flowers.

The clearest parts of my memory from that night are like stills from a movie. I can see the giant snowflakes wafting heavily to the ground, frame by frame, happily rushing towards their final resting place.

"Take me, Earth, I'm yours," they sighed.

I remember the boughs of the pines that lined the street slumping under all that snow. They looked as exhausted as I was.

I can see with perfect clarity the red and blue disco the ambulance lights played on the ice-covered driveway, smell the cold.

I remember answering questions that weren't meant for me.

"Can you hear me? What's your birthdate? Is this your daughter?"

I know exactly what I was wearing. It was a lacy black tunic with a red satin bow that tied in the front. It was the only thing I felt pretty in. I was eight months along by then.

"You look like a fat slut. Just like your mother."

I don't remember her falling, but I can hear the dull thud as her head struck the fifth stair on the way down.

I never did figure out what I was doing up there.

Drunks fall all the time, my memory whispered, helpfully.

She fell.