The one big nagging problem of memoirs is that many would-be memoirists assume that a memoir is a story where the writer already knows what happens. […] You stifle your memoir in the grave when you consider it a passive account of things past rather than an active, completely new and surprising encounter. --The Intern This should be easy, I told myself when I began revising a chapter about Nana. I love her deeply, and I could talk about her all day. But several drafts later, the pages were still lifeless…a bare-bones outline in the graveyard of my imagination. I finally realized I needed to step away from the keyboard, to allow myself space and time in which to re-envision the chapter’s essence. And so I did. I sifted through my memories, starting with Nana's prized button collection—stashed like a pirate’s treasure in a battered biscuit tin, and still sweetly fragranced with her rose-scented lotion. I lingered over my tiny collection of photographs, including this one, where she's posing with my youngest sister. I searched for new meanings in her favorite expressions. “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,” she once told me in a no-nonsense voice, blowing wishes from a dandelion puff with her very next breath. And I remembered her wrinkled hands, plunged deep into an enamel sink full of dishwater. “His Eye is On the Sparrow,” she sang, as her eyes traveled a million miles beyond the kitchen window. And I knew in that moment, as I’ve always known, that my grandmother was watching over me.
Wonderful memories, all of them, but I still couldn’t find my way in—until, that is, I awaked early one morning, on the cusp of a beautiful dream. And in that gauzy space between sleep and wakefulness, I heard the echo of a long-forgotten song. When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, what will I be? Will I be pretty, will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me. Que sera, sera...
It was one of Nana's favorites. Phrase by phrase, verse by verse, I recalled the lyrics Nana helped me memorize ages ago. What was she telling me, I wondered. Dawn gave way to daylight, and as the clock ticked forward, I sat with my teacher—the teacher—and learned the lessons anew. And then I opened my document and started writing. This story has another happy—no, magical—ending. Would you like to hear that version, too?
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