Some memories arrive in fragments. Others arrive like blunt instruments. The memory of the day my mother made an apology on all fours is both. It is a scene that has replayed in my mind thousands of times, often late at night when sleep refuses to come, and sometimes in the middle of a crowded street when a stranger’s posture triggers an unwelcome flashback.
(“I am very sorry. I get on my knees to ask for forgiveness.”) Some memories arrive in fragments