Excerpt from The Nancy Who Drew: The Memoir That Solved A Mystery
When I was in my twenties I dreamed I missed the bus. Then, in my thirties, feeling at the helm, I dreamed I was the bus driver. By the time I noticed that bus spelled backwards is sub, I was already in my forties. Because it wasn’t until I was in my forties that I began looking through the mirror differently, seeing things in a different order. And then in my fifties, I dreamed of a bus rolling across a frozen lake. The ice broke. Bus and driver fell through. Bus became sub. Above became below. When I woke up, I realized that I had broken through the ice. And then I remembered the ice that I hadn’t been able to paint. The ice I used to think had collected around my frozen heart. And I realized that in writing down my story I had broken through the ice of a frozen memory.
What did I know and when did I know it? I think I knew it all along. I think I knew it before I was me. I think my mission was to remember.
And I will remember. I will remember falling into the sea. I will remember the shots. I will remember the crash. The crash will haunt me in dreams. And I will remember the color rose, and roses. And if the memory is frozen, then I will think of frozen roses. I will create whatever I have to that forces my memory. Because my story is one of remembrance. It is what happened to me in order that I would remember.
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