one lives in hope of becoming a memory
As the conversation turns to the mushrooms, however, I find myself torn between the two topics, and a part of me still holds on to poking fun at my dad’s expense, while the other part of me wants to discuss the topic that I had actually been thinking about quite a bit. Ever since mother had taught me about the different types of mushrooms, I had grown curious about these hallucinogenic mushrooms. And though I joked with Reave about this, the thought jabs at that bubble of curiosity in my brain.
I laugh at his “chivalry” and with a glint in my eyes, I quip back at him, “Are you sure that’s the gentlemanly thing to do? I mean, gentlemen are supposed to ensure the lady is protected, and you wouldn’t be protecting me by making me eat the poisonous mushroom.” I wink.
Even still, I can’t stop thinking about the thought of a fat and shaggy father with a giant turtle shell on his back. And then another idea pops into my head (it would seem I’m full of those today). I’m not sure it will work, but it gives me a new thing to try with my echoes. “Hang on,” I tell him. Then, collecting up all the concentration I can muster, I try to cut and paste aspects of one memory onto another. With the odd image in my head, and unsure of whether this will even work, I push the memory toward Reave’s consciousness while trying to suppress a laugh (because the image is nothing less than hilarious to me).
I’m not sure how it lands, but I’m hoping he sees my comedic interpretation of Yanhua with a giant turtle shell on his back and a fat and shaggy belly to match a set of shaggy paws where his hooves should have been. “Did you get it?” I ask, eagerly, grinning broadly and shifting my weight from one hoof to the other in an anticipatory way.
Memorie