If Memory Swerves

When taking a trip down memory lane, it’s best to brace yourself for rude awakening after rude awakening. What you think you remember is usually a little different from what really transpired way back when. You have this image in your head of a picturesque town, perfectly quaint in its quaintness, harkening back to a time when paper boys ran amok, windmills spun at a gentle clip, and the only pickets involved white fencing. 

But then you pull into town and see a swinging, unblinking streetlight between an intersection that once embodied the very definition of control. To see it now is to weep. For it languishes as a place of chaos. Anarchy has come to small town America. You see spaces, shadows of buildings that formerly loomed over the region, but are no more, ground into dust. 

Then you recall a memory of your father bringing home freshly baked madeleines from the boulangerie in the center of the village. Raoul was the baker, a friend of the family's. He'd slip in a few extras for the kiddies, always the most generous soul. Even after all these years, you can still taste the sponge as it crumbles onto your plate and makes it way to your gullet. Everything rushes back like a stream bubbling through the township. 

Yet you pull into your hometown confused and depressed. There’s no boulangerie. You didn’t grow up in France. Raoul is nowhere to be found. The bubbling stream is mostly dry, with fish carcasses and garbage, a toxic spill sealing its fate. There were no madeleines, that much you know now. You got cookies, occasionally on special occasions. Far from the norm, you daily routine involved crumbs and scraps, heavily processed snacks without so much as an accent aigu to provide a little style.  

You were a bit off. It happens to the worst of us. Next time, check your photo album or court transcript. Those have a way of giving reality a stronger foundation. Either that or continue misremembering things past. Your call.