I look to the wall in my bedroom opposite the wall with the window that faces east, the rising sun through the compound of buildings in one of which I live, the sun shining through the bare branches of the trees in their mid-winter stark, I say, skeleton fingers at sunrise, I imagine, the wall opposite the window facing east-southeast, moving about, a dance of skeleton fingers on the wall as they move in time with the breeze that blows and shakes the branches of the tree I turn to see as I get up out of bed, a year when I am sleeping on the side next to the window.
A bent shadow on the brick wall outside the window as I spy glancing downward for a second, the wall perpendicular to the wall with the window that faces east, the rising sun.
I close my eyes and see a bone finger hand I had seen once in a dream not long after my Aunt Anna had died. I helped carry her coffin, lead bue I said, to the grave, one very warm humid June,early seventies. I missed school for her funeral. I stayed after everyone had left and tossed a rose on top of the lid or maybe I just imagine that I dropped one on top of her coffin, a handful of dirt I recollect having done, even this I suspect I never did.
Memory, iconic, memory, echoic, which memory of the many memories do I use, this faculty of mind by which information is encoded, stored, and retrieved, related to the limbic system, that complex system of nerves and networks in the brain involving several areas near the edge of the cortex concerned with my instincts and my moods, thus controlling my basic emotions, my fears, my pleasure, my anger, controlling my drives, my hunger, my sex, my dominance and my care for offspring . . . what does revery have to do with this thing called memory and how much of this memory is devoted to remembering and how does recall differ from remembering or recollecting, all this stretching back, reaching out into the lost time of silhouettes clutching my shoulders, winter bare branches on my block all the way home alone after after-school. November gray I recall; April is not cruelest month—no it is not. November is, for sure, much crueler; having nothing on that teeming life springing back in the spring for November, slowly like my dad the morning he died, then all of sudden still—dead.
The leaves are falling having fallen all of the fallen to the lawns below on either side of the path that winds serpentinata through the complex of buildings.