memory – Clara Hsu

The True Frog

There is a bakery somewhere near Mariposa and Byrant. The aroma that fills the block reminds me of Hong Kong in the 1960’s, when in the evening you could buy fresh bread from the corner store. I used to roll the soft warm bread back into a doughy ball before I put it in my mouth. Like cream soda, stir-fried spaghetti and Neapolitan ice cream, certain foods always taste wonderful in my childhood memories.

Frog was another staple food. The sweet and delicate meat, almost translucent, steamed and flavored with scallions or with black bean sauce, resting on a bed of rice, was one of my school-lunch favorites. Many years later I was ecstatic to find frog in a Danville grocery store. But when I cooked the meat it emitted a horrible smell. That, unfortunately, became part of my frog memory.

When Jack Foley discovered frog dishes in Binh Minh Quan, a Vietnamese restaurant in Oakland, my desire for frog returned. It was important for me to erase the bad memory and preserve the good one.

“Have to try it,” I told him.

They offered the frog in butter, with lemon grass or curry. I chose lemon grass.

It was delicious.

The Memory Game

What’s the difference between forgetful and short term memory loss? Aren’t they the same thing, when the bottom line is that you don’t remember?

Dore gave me three words: trousers, church, green. I was to remember them when he tests me for my short term memory. Hours later I am still thinking of these words but he has already gone to bed. He never asks me for them.

So much for the test, and maybe we’ll be all right. Experts suggest mental exercises. The brain needs stretching too, turning driveways into freeways.

All afternoon I was trying to memorize two lines of a poem. I’m still unsuccessful.

Repeat Repeat

How do we remember? I carry a pocket size diary. I use Google’s reminder. I join facebook. But despite of the writing down and typing out and electronic prompts, I still forget. Things are not “with me” unless I talk about them. When I talk about them often enough, I don’t forget.

As we age we tend to repeat what we want to say over and over again. My daughter is beginning to notice such trait in me,”Mom, you’ve said that already.” And although I don’t say that to my father, I also wish that he would stop “nagging” me.

But maybe we don’t repeat to annoy others. Before writing was invented, recitation of poetry and songs were the means of remembering. It is not so odd that we repeat ourselves, but we should repeat often, and rely less on the hosts of artificial reminders out there.

The Planets in My Room

The planets are still, suspended in the dark as I sleep. And before waking I sense their odd shaped bodies. Not just rounded, but rectangular and pentagonal, lying in stillness, surrounding me. They are habitable. Some have a glint, like the reflection of water. Several moons have mysterious marking. Another holds human memories of youth. Father, mother, uncles and grandparents. Two have the first hint of life embedded in them. A water hole, primitive yet unmistakable. Behind my head is a little mud disc. It too, carries a pulse.

When I open my eyes I see my room as it has always been. The planets have flattened themselves on the walls and become two dimensional. The mirror, the three drums with animal hide, the aboriginal paintings, the family photos, and the little hummingbird nest with remains that I saved from a bush. Was it dream or imagination? Did the objects reveal themselves when I was receptive? I have no clue, only that I must write this down.