Borrowed memories

Time and time again, Vernon thought, one discovers how creative memory is.

Time and time again, Vernon thought, one discovers how creative memory is.

Section 82 is thinking on its feet

His thoughts turned to borrowed memories. If you can’t remember formative events that are your ‘birthright’, do you have any kind of right to them at all? His parent’s recollections of Pune in India, the veranda and the ayah, the mosquito nets and the Holy Men, these potent images he’d inherited. Forgetting for a moment that he was running he shook his head vigorously and wavered around on the path to the consternation of a pensioner waiting for the bus.

“You okay dear?” she said with concern.

“Fine thank you Mrs Chortly.”  He called over his shoulder.

Vernon knew that his early memories were dependent in part on reruns of family slide shows and collective reminiscences. In truth they were hardly memories at all, more like family archives. He was also interested in what made people who they were. What made everyone unique? Perhaps there was something worth exploring there.

The smooth, wide footpath was bordered by wild grasses, Cow Parsley, Bird’s Eye Speedwell, the ubiquitous and emotive Corn Rose and the occasional common crisp packet. The rain had stopped and Vernon thrilled at the Englishness of the Suffolk countryside. As the path crossed the road he skirted around the mangled carcass of a rabbit and his thoughts changed direction.

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