remembering
In a dusty corner of a Mesa, Arizona thrift store there are VHS tapes with no cases, no descriptions. They are ten cents apiece and I take a chance on the possibility of finding something I can use. Push the tape in the VCR. Hit play. A few of them turn out to be home movies. There are people on these tapes that I have never met but their lives look familiar. This tape has a mother with her newborn baby. This other tape shows a different mother, different baby. I began to catalog these intimate moments of maternity because owning them means I am responsible for the memories. There is music playing over footage of a baby getting kissed and I record the tune, playing it over everything I see. The mother smiles at me while she turns the baby toward the camera. I pause the tape. Time and memory are displayed line by line on the screen and I feel the weight of these memories that do not belong to me.
Will they forget these moments now that I have them?
Copyright Emily Sarten 2019