A Memoir by Mary Callahan

Where do memories live? Mine live in my stomach, my nose, my skin; lashed across my face with masking tape. I can still feel the sticky sweat and the rash it left behind; can still smell that beige-colored packing material masking my words, my dignity. I was forced to work through the day as if nothing was wrong while overlapping layers of tape covered half my face and, mummy-like, peeled in the heat. I even put it back on when the tape, soaked with sweat, failed, lest I be forced to apply new tape to the already red, swollen, pimply wound that was my mouth. Now I was quiet.

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Mary Callahan, a Jersey girl now living in New England, still misses New Jersey pizza and diners, but not New Jersey traffic. She was recently awarded an Individual Artist Grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council for her memoir-in-progress, and has taught writing at Rhode Island College and the Naval Academy Preparatory School. Her creative nonfiction has been published in Newport Review, Gravel, and Foliate Oak.