A memory of Whyoma, a memory of hers

By Matthew Anderson

PROMPT — If only ...

When she was a little girl, my grandmother Whyoma carried in her small hands a dish of water and minnows. The few minnows swam between her stirring fingers as she gingerly carried them back to her family's house. I don't remember why she carried them. But I know she dropped them. The dish broke and the minnows spilled out, small and flapping and thrashing against the unwelcome air. Whyoma hurriedly grabbed up the fish and the sharp fragments of the dish, as she noticed blood and worried she had hurt a minnow. Her mother helped her find a new place for the minnows, and washed Whyoma's hands, barely noticing the small cut on the tip of her finger.

Years and years later, Whyoma worked one of her first jobs as a secretary, typing and filing and organizing. I don't remember what kind of company it was. It must have been close to 1947. Maybe 1949. What I know is that eventually while working there, she struck her index finger against the typewriter key in such a way that it pierced with pain. It hurt so much that she could not go on typing, and excused herself from the other women and hurried to the bathroom. She was young, but a talented seamstress and had a small sewing kit that she pulled from her purse, standing there in front of the bathroom sink. She felt something small and hard beneath her skin, something sharp and pushing against it. She took one of her needles and cut open her fingertip, enough to remove and pull up to the light a small piece of jagged porcelain.

I don't remember what she did with the piece. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps she threw it away, and hustled back to work because she was young, and this was a long time ago. Or maybe she kept it. Maybe she kept something that hurt her, something that returned to her from her past. Maybe it awoke in her a brighter, clearer memory of the bowl, its color, its cold hardness against her small warm hands. Maybe even a memory of the gracefulness of the minnows as they floated and swam over each other, helpless and beautiful like the tiniest things are. Maybe the sight was enough to distract her so that she tripped over a root or misjudged a stair.

I remember—that she broke a bowl full of water and fish and scooped it all up, and a part of it stayed within her, in her blood, in her finger for many years. Until she poked it out.

I don't remember—how she fell. Did she fall? Or did she just drop the bowl? I don't remember, even though I know she told me.

Did you go back to work...

Did you ever feel like the fish...

Did you keep the little shard of porcelain...

If only I could ask her questions.

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Matthew Anderson is a prose poet and essayist currently working on a memoir in Portland, Oregon. He lives with his fiancé and two Sphynx cats.