story telling

my mom is telling me stories, like before, like when i was 10 and she would sleep in my bed and tell me stories from her memory like cinderella, and jack and the bean stalk and rumplestilskin until her voice would get drowsy and shed start mumbling, mixing endings and names of fairy tales until trinity and i couldnt hold it anymore and would wake her up, giggling, mama, mama, thats not how the story goes. last night we lay on air mattresses in her studio and im covered up in quilts up to my chin, shes got fifteen stuffed animals and im clutching my skull pillow and were laughing at each other over flashlights through slight oakland friday night clatter, streetlight buzz and girls voices rise and fade down the street, towards the freeway, towards their night. shes telling me stories about my baptism day, there was a party she said, noah wouldnt leave you alone and trinity was just happy to have a party and entertain, and i, well i had just bought this brand new blue dress...she trails off and her eyes go glassy and i cant look at her because im afraid she or i will cry and i am not sure why. i ask about daddy. and she smiles. she says, your daddy, i found your daddy in the bedroom at grammeres house on santa rosa holding you up in the sun and singing to you, your daddy lived for his children's special days. my mother is telling me stories, i am smelling the air in calistoga when i come home from a boyfriends house and im 16 and my father is barbequeing in the back yard, it smells damp, and mossy and like charcol and dirt, like the sheets always smell at that house, like the cedar tea setter in the dining room that holds all the linen, and my boyfriend and i would sneak to my room and make out while my dad watered the garden just a few feet from where we lay. my mother is telling stories and i remember her hair, thick and black, a wide braid, waking me up in the mornings after shed gone running and coffee on her breath, gently coaxing me into the day, sweat smelling and mama, flat hands careful, careful, careful. i remember winters in that house, rain rot and weeds growing up through the floor boards, all the pans in the kitchen slept with me in my room and i learned to fall asleep to a symphony of metal pangs, plastic tupperware and when youd open up the cabinets in the kitchen, theyd be empty, pots spread all over the house to catch the water, pouring in through miniature holes. my mother is telling me stories and all i hear are smells of 18, vanilla and oil perfume, suntan lotion and skin trip, damp carpet and mold, moldy walls because the house never dried under all those trees, the feel of cement underneath bare feet, leaves sticky after spray and my mother could never keep shoes on me, my mother is telling me stories and all i hear is the loudspeaker at football games, the buzzer in the gym at calistoga high, the gravel on my driveway and the exact place my front door groans open, how you have to open it quick to sneak in after my dad has fallen asleep and the way my door sounded as it slammed, which was infuriating, because it never was really a slam, but more of a sad pathetic shut, swollen wood and rusty hinges.
my mother is telling stories, things i cant remember i ask her to tell me, i strain myself to think of my first memory, how much i piece together as real, as what i know to be true, or what i heard from stories. the first memory i have of my brother is him in the backyard, picking onions... i cant get this out of my head and i collect these fragments, a mustache, a man in tight jeans and greasy hair, brown dresses and sand, salami sandwiches and coca-cola, my brothers voice, his slight lisp, my sisters fingers and big eyes, i feel like i remember being held by her, i want to remember being small enough to be held.