Saturday, April 3, 2010
Lovely Katie posted a picture of a paper crane on her blog. And with it, she posted a John Lennon quote (I love John Lennon), but it did not register one bit because all I could think of was what came flooding back, at the sight of the folded paper crane: a soft, muffled memory.
The memory was of Sevilla, Spain. I was twenty-three years old. It was late March, and the weather was warm, the city settled into a languid ease. The hostel room I stayed in was shared with two women. One was a Dutch anthropology grad student, who was there to study the ancient texts at the local university. The other woman in the room was a very sweet, newly-retired Japanese woman, who had the interesting habit of sleeping in the nude atop her bedsheets and mumbling loudly in her sleep so as to keep others (ahem, me) up at night. The day the Japanese woman left, she gave me a paper crane in a bright miniscule floral pattern.
I must not see paper cranes often because this is the first time I've thought of her, the first time in a really long time that I've chuckled at the memory.
Also, the paper crane reminds me of why I'm blogging right now: even the most vivid, technicolor memories grow faint with time. I am prone to forgetfulness.