01-04-2021, 11:46 PM
one lives in hope of becoming a memory
My very first memory is a memory. Mother had just pushed me from her womb and lay breathing heavily on her side. This was before she had even raised her head. Her labor pains had translated into a memory of my father and another mare, and was filled with so much emotional agony–the only equivalent to the physical pain she was now in–that I had lain there dazed and confused for a time, unsure of what was real and what was all in my head.
When finally I lifted my head, mother had risen to her feet and was already licking away the afterbirth that coated my baby fur. The residual feelings attached to the memory were mine, and mine alone, for she was so overcome by her love for me, and no pain in the world could take that away. It was then that I realized she was real, and whatever had happened to me was something that had happened in my head. The pain, while scary at first, had become something like an anchor for me, grounding me firmly in reality where the memories could not harm me.
It would take time for me to understand that what had happened was a memory of my mother’s. In that time, Borderline had done everything right by me. She had loved me as deeply as anyone could love their child. She had taught me about life and joy and love as well as pain and anger and heartache. For a while, I was confused about why she was so sad, because she seemed to understand life in ways that most never will, and she always seemed so happy. But the memories continued to tell a different story.
With each memory, and each lesson I learned, I came to understand my gift more and more, as well as the pain that my mother harbored. And the more I thought about telling her of my gift, the more I felt it would be a bad idea. After all, these memories would often tell me just when she needed me to be with her. Sometimes that meant pressing my warmth against her, sometimes it meant doing something silly to make her laugh, and other times it meant a gentle brush against her side to remind her that I was there with her. She never seemed to notice, but it always made her so much happier.
It must be easy for @[Yanhua] to worry that my gift might be a burden, but it had been what had shaped me and molded me into a stronger, better Memorie. Though mother had a lot of credit for that as well.
One day, I would share this story with my father, but right now, I’m still a nervous little filly, barely beginning to open up to him, even struggling to call him dad.
I smile shyly when he says that I could call him that, but that shyness ebbs away as we move into a meadow. It’s so easy to get lost in the forest of massive trees that it seemed almost alien to come across a clearing. It makes me stop for just a moment in wonder and glee. And while he took a moment to grab some grass, I took a moment to grab life by the horns and shot like a bullet through the meadow, stopping at the other end and prancing with high steps back around to face him, laughter on my face. I trot back to my father, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” I said, but my tone says “not sorry.”
Now was time to get back to business, though, so when he says that he’s going to send me an echo, I close my eyes, waiting to feel some sort of familiar sensation of someone else’s memory. I had never really thought much of it, but I’m sure there must be some difference in how it feels. It was in this concentration that I could feel the ripple before I could see the memory. As it came through, I could also sense a very subtle difference between the feeling of my own memories versus those of someone else’s. It was a very minute observation, though, as the rest of the memory came flooding through my mind–a happy one of father with his…twin?
A thrill of excitement runs through me, and suddenly I have a thousand questions for him about his own childhood. “Did you grow up here? Did you have a twin? What is it like to have other foals around to play with? What did you do when you were younger? Did you chase butterflies?” The rest of the stallion’s words of wisdom were lost to the torrent of questions spilling from my mouth.
But then I realize that my manners are seriously lacking right now, and I stop asking stupid questions and tuck my chin into my neck, looking ashamed. “Sorry,” I say, trying to remember all of what he had said, but alas, I am still a child and my memory is pretty shoddy at best. “What were you saying?” I was genuinely curious about his life as a child, but I also wanted to prove myself as a diligent student and a daughter to be proud of.
When finally I lifted my head, mother had risen to her feet and was already licking away the afterbirth that coated my baby fur. The residual feelings attached to the memory were mine, and mine alone, for she was so overcome by her love for me, and no pain in the world could take that away. It was then that I realized she was real, and whatever had happened to me was something that had happened in my head. The pain, while scary at first, had become something like an anchor for me, grounding me firmly in reality where the memories could not harm me.
It would take time for me to understand that what had happened was a memory of my mother’s. In that time, Borderline had done everything right by me. She had loved me as deeply as anyone could love their child. She had taught me about life and joy and love as well as pain and anger and heartache. For a while, I was confused about why she was so sad, because she seemed to understand life in ways that most never will, and she always seemed so happy. But the memories continued to tell a different story.
With each memory, and each lesson I learned, I came to understand my gift more and more, as well as the pain that my mother harbored. And the more I thought about telling her of my gift, the more I felt it would be a bad idea. After all, these memories would often tell me just when she needed me to be with her. Sometimes that meant pressing my warmth against her, sometimes it meant doing something silly to make her laugh, and other times it meant a gentle brush against her side to remind her that I was there with her. She never seemed to notice, but it always made her so much happier.
It must be easy for @[Yanhua] to worry that my gift might be a burden, but it had been what had shaped me and molded me into a stronger, better Memorie. Though mother had a lot of credit for that as well.
One day, I would share this story with my father, but right now, I’m still a nervous little filly, barely beginning to open up to him, even struggling to call him dad.
I smile shyly when he says that I could call him that, but that shyness ebbs away as we move into a meadow. It’s so easy to get lost in the forest of massive trees that it seemed almost alien to come across a clearing. It makes me stop for just a moment in wonder and glee. And while he took a moment to grab some grass, I took a moment to grab life by the horns and shot like a bullet through the meadow, stopping at the other end and prancing with high steps back around to face him, laughter on my face. I trot back to my father, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” I said, but my tone says “not sorry.”
Now was time to get back to business, though, so when he says that he’s going to send me an echo, I close my eyes, waiting to feel some sort of familiar sensation of someone else’s memory. I had never really thought much of it, but I’m sure there must be some difference in how it feels. It was in this concentration that I could feel the ripple before I could see the memory. As it came through, I could also sense a very subtle difference between the feeling of my own memories versus those of someone else’s. It was a very minute observation, though, as the rest of the memory came flooding through my mind–a happy one of father with his…twin?
A thrill of excitement runs through me, and suddenly I have a thousand questions for him about his own childhood. “Did you grow up here? Did you have a twin? What is it like to have other foals around to play with? What did you do when you were younger? Did you chase butterflies?” The rest of the stallion’s words of wisdom were lost to the torrent of questions spilling from my mouth.
But then I realize that my manners are seriously lacking right now, and I stop asking stupid questions and tuck my chin into my neck, looking ashamed. “Sorry,” I say, trying to remember all of what he had said, but alas, I am still a child and my memory is pretty shoddy at best. “What were you saying?” I was genuinely curious about his life as a child, but I also wanted to prove myself as a diligent student and a daughter to be proud of.
memorie
