The Soft Weight of Memory

There is a closet door in my grandmother’s house. It sits next to her couch in the dark paneled, knotty pine living room, where she and I watch Days of our Lives every day after lunch in the summertime. I turn the knob quietly, as she makes cucumber, tomato, and mayo sandwiches for us in the kitchen. I’ve done this before, many times actually, because I’m only interested in seeing one thing, the baby buggy that lives inside, with its sleek monochromatic colors and shape. It takes up the whole bottom of the closet, a deep flat almost black blue, perched upon four mini white bicycle wheels with thin spokes, all four with little stainless steel bumpers, the handle the same silver, curved, like the world’s coolest grocery cart.

I know it used to be mine, but I don’t remember sitting in it, which bothers me. Why can’t I remember? I’m only nine. It’s the fanciest thing we seem to own, besides my grandmother’s faux fur coat that hangs beside it. I’ve always assumed this is where we keep the good stuff, the stuff we may need later. Sometimes, I gaze at the wall of multicolored shoe boxes perched high on the shelf above, but always lose interest.

Not remembering being pushed down the street in the buggy is a real letdown. I imagine ladies wearing pastel colored suits and pill box hats leaning in to see who’s inside. I do the same. There’s nothing in it but a mattress pad, same as every other time. No blankets, no stuffed animals, just the patterned crisscross stitched vinyl. I run my fingers over the name scrawled on the side in gold letters, Royale, and wonder who gave it to my mother. Who thought she needed the Cadillac of baby buggies for her first born daughter? the daughter she birthed while dreaming lucidly at Rutland Memorial hospital, three streets over.

“What is that?” my mother said, when the nurse handed me to her.

“It’s your baby,” the nurse answered.