Memory Awakened
This essay was written as part of an assignment in a Creative Fiction Writing class in which I was enrolled in the winter of 2002. The instructor enjoyed it so much that she submitted it on my behalf to the PJC newspaper and literary magazines; respectively, the Corsair and the Hurricane Review.
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Memory Awakened
The first time I heard �Like Jesus To A Child�, by George Michael, was in the winter of 1996. I was nineteen years old, spending the holidays with my family in London. That day, I had elected to take a trip through the city on my own. I awoke early and set out to explore the richness of my homeland�s capital city.
The streets were lined with shin-high snow piles that stood out against the bleak grey pavement. My breath was visible before me�wispy clouds of mirth�as I greeted others on my journey. There was a certain glee to my stride that undoubtedly marked me as a visitor among the jaded denizens of the city.
I can�t quite recall the exact point at which my mood darkened, yet I distinctly remember the dehumanization that occurred as the full weight of the English winter settled upon me. It was a seamless transformation, one from exuberant youth to walking Popsicle. When, at last, I could no longer feel anything below my knees, I retreated to the warm shelter of the Rat & Parrot Pub.
It was a few moments after I had settled down at a table with a glass of mulled red wine that the first strains of music caressed the smoky air. The melody seemed to wrap itself around my heart and envelop me in a strange sense of warmth that I was certain would extend to the wintry landscape beyond.
Just as the sweet, warm wine flowed over my tongue, so did the singer�s voice over the haunting score. Each word was imbued with soulful elegance and love of craft. I was transfixed, frozen in a single moment that I knew would endure in my mind forever.
Times have changed. I�ve grown older, and the sense of joy and childlike wonder once brought about by the feeling of winter�s day has faded to the shadows of the banal. Not a single time, however, have I heard that song and failed to recollect my first experiencing of it. I can taste the warm, sweet wine; I can smell the rich aroma of a dozen cigars. A cloak of warmth wraps itself around me, and I am at home within my soul.
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