by Meg Tuite

 

I stare at yet another statue in a town square that is circular. It’s a life-size monument to someone who did something in history that is worthy of birds shitting on it day in and day out, people taking photos of other people in front of it, and some woman who eats her turkey sandwich there at noon on weekdays.

This object is just one more lapsed synapse of my brain that has calcified into bronze, never to animate again. There is a statue in every town, in every country, and each one represents the forgotten, never to be retrieved memory of someone from the past.

I had parents. I had best friends. I’m sure a kid or two used to walk to school with me. Some kids hated me. Made prank phone calls asking me out and not showing up. I didn’t get invited to parties. I did get invited to parties. Someone must have held my hair while I barfed in the bushes. Someone else made the fake IDs. More than a few guys who played guitars, drums, dulcimers, complimented me until I had sex with them. I cried and confided to girls while slumped over toilets in bathroom stalls. One or two must have taken off with the guy I whispered I was in love with, but would never get.

If I took a picture of all the statues of unknown people, I could fill a photo album and put it on my coffee table. This is my memoir, I would say.

Multitudes of pigeons amble around this circular square chattering and cooing about a woman who is quiet and still as a statue until everyone walks around her, but doesn’t notice. She finishes her lunch, throws crumbs at the birds and walks back to work.

 

 

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