A Memory

There are magic moments in stories, be it from a drama or book, and to me it's the most fascinating thing in the world. I watch and read a lot a lot of things, truthfully, too much even that sometimes I get confused whether my memory is authentic or has been mixed up with somebody else's. I don't remember every story I've seen or read, but I do remember those magic moments.

Here is something from The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender, which I think is delicately beautiful:

“When I crossed the street, according to my mother, I still had to hold someone’s hand. At ten, I would be able to cross streets unhanded. I’d held on to Joseph’s many times before, for many years, but holding his was like holding a plant, and the disappointment of fingers that didn’t grasp back was so acute that at some point I’d opted to take his forearm instead. For the first few street crossings, that’s what I did, but on the corner at Oakwood, on an impulse, I grabbed George’s hand. Right away: fingers, holding back. The sun. More clustery vines of bougainvillea draping over windows in bulges of dark pink. His warm palm. An orange tabby lounging on the sidewalk. People in torn black T-shirts sitting and smoking on steps. The city, opening up.We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.”