'The Herb of Memory'

“In time we bow / To the necessity and claim profound / Returns in memory.”

The spice cupboard was a disorganized mess. Looking for tarragon turned into an expedition. I wiped the shelf where seasonings had spilled and what did I smell? Cloves. Then it was 1961 and I was greeting my maternal grandmother at the front door. Her fur coat was cold. With the hug I reached for her purse of black patent leather and she let it slip from her shoulder. I opened it and inside was the usual pack of Cloves gum. I took a stick and gave another to my brother. Neither of us was ever much of a gum-chewer but the ritual had to be observed.

 

This memory of a memory was inspired by Suzanne Doyle’s poem “My Grandmother’s Visit.” Like her, I was fond of my grandmother, a rare gentle spirit in our family. Memory, of course, has a dual nature. How happy I am to see her again so vividly, if briefly, but then she’s gone. My grandmother shared birth and death years with Marianne Moore – 1887-1972 – and resembled her, an old-fashioned American beauty. Reading Moore is another reliable memory-trigger, as in these lines from her poem “Rosemary”:

 

“The herb of memory,

imitating the blue robe of Mary,

is not too legendary

 

“to flower both as symbol and as pungency.”