I can still feel the hot chili in the less-than-paper-thin Frito‘s bag at the ballpark as a kid. Frito Pie is what happened after playing in the game.
Canned chili, warmed, one ladle‘s worth
Small bag Frito‘s, bag cut lenthwise
Serve with white paper napkin and little white spoon
During the game the gig was to put as much bubble gum in my mouth as possible while yelling “batter batter batter batter batter…swing!” The sun set warm and I can‘t remember now if I won or lost any of those games. I just played.
People who have been to death‘s door say that when we die we see a light and people flood back into our brains and memories jumble back, maybe like a tsunami. All those cells holding those memories unload all at once, one last Pollack-esque mural of everything. Memories are a little bit of dying, a little bit of the end. They are yesterday‘s news. When I was young I was not remembering anything. I was doing the living. I keep going back in this writing place because I am returning for that kid at the ball park, living now the best way I can, knowing everything I know and doing it anyway. It wont’ be, can‘t be, the same as then. I am coming back with memory, for one. Also, I don‘t want to go back in a non-conscious way. I want to be there for the second time and, as Eliot says, know it for the first time.
I am on this journey to my heart. Memory, now, is the road I am traveling.
Tonight Rose asked me if I am ready to have my heart walking around outside of me when Aidan comes. I need to know that heart so I know it when I see it out there, so I know him when I see him rounding third, coming home.