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Grandma’s Fridge


Grandma's Fridge

When I opened the new fridge yesterday after I had arranged the jars and the vegetables inside I suddenly recalled my grandma’s fridge and felt as if I was standing in front of it. It was strange that of all refrigerators I recalled grandma’s fridge on the occasion of my new fridge. Not only is it not new, but it no longer exists, and grandma herself no longer exists, and her non existence is growing older. Nothing about that fridge stems from my fridge, no matter which way you look at it, but a light bulb was lit inside my head when I opened the new fridge’s door and it lit the space of my memory. Lately I’m trying to catch flickering memories as soon as they arrive and quarry them a little, get inside, stay in the moment, even if the memory is not a moment, find a way to make these memories become more than glowing cards that are lifted for a moment and immediately taken down. I try to expand the memory by arranging grandma’s fridge. Here must have been the pickled eggplants, here were some cut vegetables, here there were eggs, here must have been cheese, here necessarily was the milk, here probably there was a pot or two. I’m arranging the memory of grandma’s fridge like an empty apartment that people are about to be hosted in and that has to pleasant so that the pleasant things that make a place a home can happen inside. I’m trying to arrange the memory of my grandma’s fridge so that all those things that make a thought into a big wide experience can happen inside. But it doesn’t happen. And even if I’ll arrange the fridge exactly as it looked on a specific day on a specific spring on a specific year many years ago, the memory will close down exactly in the rims of the fridge, and the lightbulb inside my head will turn off, and I will remain standing in front of another fridge, organized and lit, looking with wide open eyes at the things that haven’t yet grown old.


From → Memory

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