I’m scraping my hippocampus for memories of the shadow man who flitted in and out of my life, making brief cameos and little concrete impression.
Did I sense something about that man at the time? Did I intuit the import of Harry, the Pigeon-man who was Grandma’s true love?
Did I deliberately bury this instinct? Was it too strange for a child to contemplate? Or record as memory?
I honestly can’t remember.
I’m aware of the failings of my own memory, its fragility.
Something else strikes me. Perhaps I wasn’t particularly aware of Harry’s periodic presence. But perhaps I was aware of something else: the changing moods in my grandmother.
Sometimes she seemed happier. Sometimes she sang a little bit more, seemed purer and less distracted. Sometimes, so inspired.
Were those the times Harry was near?
Did I sense that Grandma led a double life? Or that she needed more than one thing to keep her happy?
Does it scare me to feel so connected to her malady?