The Great Maternal Chasm

I am remembering this for someone else, someone who wishes to remain anonymous, so if I fudge some parts, bear with me, I am remembering, too, and not always in the correct order of events, far from it. Perhaps I am the man in the hat, the shamble leg man, the alms woman, harridan and bow-legged man, perhaps not; after all memory is not always reliable, even when one thinks one has remembered correctly, gotten all the events in the right order. A blue sky can be a cerulean sky, a sky so blue that it seems black, a sky so cobalt, Prussian or azure, navy, indigo that it can be mistaken for something else, an ocean, perhaps, even a blue overcoat or a bruise. Sometimes bagels are a woman’s underwear, or the mouth of the great maternal chasm, the very same place I was pushed out from when I was too young to know the difference between a blue sky and an overcoat. As with most things, things we remember and things we forget, these things aren’t worth the bother, so I best leave it at that and get on with fudging the story.