'Committing the shape of words to memory' by Jaz Leigh

For the creative writing side of my joint honours degree, the majority of my assignments are portfolios of my work. I thought it would be an interesting idea to share some of - what I consider to be - my best work on my blog so that I can see what you guys think of it. Any comments/constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. However, please do not try to copy and repost my work elsewhere; I have the originals saved and backed up in multiple places.

This piece, 'Committing the shape of words to memory' is an autobiography/memoir piece inspired by my childhood. The task itself was to write a memory from our childhood with a focus on the senses. Some aspects of this piece are fictional.

'Committing the shape of words to memory'

After school, we’d eat dinner while watching cartoons. I’d feed the cats and we’d spend some time playing with my baby corn snake. But it was 8:30 pm that I always looked forward to. Bedtime. I’d rush to brush my teeth and put my pyjamas on all the while wondering what adventure we’d embark on that night. Would we join Harry and his dinosaurs? Would we witness another tantrum from the Little Princess? Or would we make another friend from Rainbow Magic? The possibilities were endless. So, while I got tucked up in my bed, she ran her fingers over the books on my shelf, muttering to herself until she found something she thought was worth reading to her little girl. She pulled it out and sat on the floor by my head. The pages were always turned away from me. ‘The best part of reading is creating the pictures for yourself…in your head’ she’d say. But I still sat and flicked through the pages every night after she’d gone to her own room. Anyway, as she sat by the head of my bed, reading through the story she had chosen, giving different voices to every character, I watched her face. You could see she enjoyed this as much as I did. Her deep brown eyes lit up and glossed over as she got lost in the tale. They glossed over so much that I could very clearly see my own reflection in them. I watched her lips move to form the shapes of the words. I committed the shape of each new word to memory. I wanted to remember every word she ever read to me. Occasionally, she’d catch me staring and poke her tongue out at me to make me giggle. Other times, she’d stare right back and run the back of her fingers against my cheek, making my eyes close happily. Without realising, my hand would reach out and rest against her cheek too. She had very soft skin, my mum. I found the cocoa butter she uses once and tried to eat it because it smelled so good. She always smelled good too, and not just because of the cocoa butter. I never knew what it was called, but she wore the same perfume every day. It was strong in the morning when she’d put it on for work. But by the time she was sat cross-legged by my head, it was soft…subtle. The combination of those smells wasn’t a total invasion of the senses; it was enough to just be her. Nobody else could ever smell like that. When she read, her voice was always quiet. Just above a whisper because despite wanting me to enjoy the story, she also wanted me to go to sleep. The days were always longer for her than they were for me. You could tell. Despite the quietness, her voice was sweet. It was hard not to sleep after she’d read to me.

Although short, I hope you enjoyed this post. If you have any content requests, feel free to leave them in the comments below!