Hazy Shade Of Memory
Flawed Gems
You know Timmy that it was your aunt Oksana who made this, she said, pointing to the cross-stitch sampler by her desk.
A memory is a memory
of a memory
of a game of Chinese Whispers
of a memory . . .
ad infinitum.
You’re making stuff up, Timothy.
Does this really sound like something I could make up?
Well, you wouldn’t make up stuff that sounded completely made up. You’d go for something somewhat feasible, yet overdramatic—and in this case the most I’ll give you is somewhat.
Come on, Bill. I was there. How can I convince you?
I’d say bring in an eye witness but you’ve already covered up that track by telling me that your aunt is dead.
Well . . .
Mom—I tried telling Bill about that time we visited Aunt Oksana in Philadelphia. The incident with the rat.
Which version?
Oh stop. You’re always bringing that up. Give me credit for growing up.
I’ve sorted out the files, realizing that the wall of fire and the dead man tumbling down the stairs were different incidents unrelated to the rat killing.
