One of my favorite things about writing beyond journalism is: I never know where it takes me. Like when I answer prompts for writers' meetings. "What do you know by heart?" was one question. Minutes later, memories folded into spices on my tongue seasoned with lines from the morning's newspaper:
My parents' phone number I know by heart: null sieben sechs drei eins, vier drei drei acht.
My school friend's number: null sieben sechs drei eins, sechs eins drei fünf.
My number in L.A.: three one zero, three eight three, one two five one.
I know by heart the feeling of sand between my toes on Venice Beach. I know by heart how to pick up a pen and write. And write. And write and write. I know by heart lyrics of ABBA songs, Smokie, Rolling Stones, Juanes, Kate Bush, Zara Leander, Blondie, Prince. I know by heart a lot of useless words like that. Not at all useless, because I'm very happy when I sing along.
I know by heart my favorite recipe: coconut ginger carrot soup. I always put more ginger than the recipe instructs.
Today I peel ginger, an extra portion on top of what I usually do. Ginger to burn away words, pictures, sounds of those killed
In Gilroy
In El Paso
In Dayton
To burn away thoughts of those left behind with candles, prayers, tears.