Mnemosyne: The Goddess of Memory

My father's hands always hold some rich literary supplement. The New York Review of Books. The London Review of Books or The New Yorker. Always something with substance and depth.
I recall a while ago I escorted him to the upstairs bathroom at Lunds. As we passed the cheap pulp novels I said to Dad: "Avert your eyes, these books are not even worth your gaze!!!

As I lounged around at my parents house I came across a photo tucked inside the New York Review of Books that captivated me for a long time. I will share that with you.

There is the photo. A black and white photo of a woman reclining with her back to us. A marble woman who is the Goddess of Memory. The photo is an old one and one can see people in the distance in this park that in on the Upper West Side of New York City. I would have put money on a bet that this was a European photo, but no, it is New York City.I get a sense of old New York in this photo.

She reclines with her back to us. Weathered by time and wind, rain and sleet, the folds of her garment are darkened. I gaze.

My father's memory is not what it could be. He often does not know the date or time or place. There are holes that need filling.
If I could stretch out a magic carpet now and place it beneath my father's feet as he sits reading The New York Review of Books, I would take him up, up and away. I would take him up above our house on 3220 Hennepin up above the back yard where my parents spend their days in the summer as the red cardinal sings to them. Up above the trees that are bare in winter, with a rutted, iced over alley far below. Up up above Lake Calhoun where we walk to for our short walks. Yes, and then we would drift east over Wisconsin's lush green hills. Drifting with the wind we would swish over Chicago and Lake Michigan. Maybe touching down briefly in Detroit or Philodelphia, but pushing and drifting with the wind, up where the birds fly by.

There among the eagles and the herons, there we would gain speed until New York City was in view and finding our direction and wending our way delicately among the tall buildings we would find our soft landing in this park. There we would walk, the two of us towards this lovely statue. Not knowing what her face looks like I imagine we would look upon some lovely visage.

There before the Goddess of Memory we would stand. Gazing at her I would beseech her to restore my father's memory that has failed him now, off and on. Gazing at her, we would reach out our hands.

And waiting, I would liston as my father turned to me, quoting his favorite poems, making lively jokes and laughing with his marvellous turn of phrase. His angular features would be filled with expression. Soon, I imagine a small crowd would gather as they heard his discourse. Animated conversation has always been the anvil he pounds his opinions on in the most animated way. There!! Yes!! The sparks fly. He quotes, quips and we marvel at his brilliance. The still lyrical statue, the odalisque of memory smiles a mysterious smile. Yes, we have come all this way to worship at her feet.
To ask and beseech her for her gift of memory. She has answered our plea.

My dad's memories pour forth; times in Japan, life on the farm in Texas, picking cotton in the heat of a long hot day. Poems he's written flutter about. He picks one up and reads it. Then goes on to recite a sonnet he loves by Shakespeare.

Memory is mended somehow.....

I drift and awaken from my slumber on the couch. Looking over, I see Dad reading away in The New York Review of Books. I point out the photo of Mnemosyne. He smiles and quotes his favorite poem to me.