(no subject)
Sometimes I think I remember before birth, or at least that I’ve dreamed of something close enough to it. Peace and warmth and movement like the rock of a ship with a dragon-or, farther back in my memories from two lifetimes, a swan-leading the way across the waters.
It’s hard to tell if those are memory as much as dream, so I suppose they only count so much. It’s hard to think beyond that, though, what counts as first.
The first thing I remember clearly and with emotion still tied to it on a deep level is the first time my mother took us to a shelter. The bombs hadn’t fallen yet, and for a few minutes it felt a bit like camping or an adventure.
And then it didn’t.
The first thing I remember upon stepping into Narnia is how cold it felt on my skin. That, and how it didn’t seem to matter that it was cold at all, because everything else was so wonderful.
The first thing I remember of when Aslan died is how the world felt like it stopped turning in a moment; the first thing I remember of the next morning is the feeling of the world, flat or round, starting to move again.
The first thing I remember upon returning to London was pure and utter grief and a sense of loss so deep that it nearly overwhelmed me. Country and lover and friends and years gone and far away in the space of one second. The rest of the time at the Professor’s was spent healing, I think. For all of us.
The first thing I remember when I woke up in the real Narnia after the train crash was the way my chest felt so full of warmth and light every moment that I thought I’d burst, or perhaps turn into a star like Ramandu, and the way Aslan laughed and suddenly was ever so much more than even the Lion I had always loved.
Lucy Pevensie
Narnia
336
It’s hard to tell if those are memory as much as dream, so I suppose they only count so much. It’s hard to think beyond that, though, what counts as first.
The first thing I remember clearly and with emotion still tied to it on a deep level is the first time my mother took us to a shelter. The bombs hadn’t fallen yet, and for a few minutes it felt a bit like camping or an adventure.
And then it didn’t.
The first thing I remember upon stepping into Narnia is how cold it felt on my skin. That, and how it didn’t seem to matter that it was cold at all, because everything else was so wonderful.
The first thing I remember of when Aslan died is how the world felt like it stopped turning in a moment; the first thing I remember of the next morning is the feeling of the world, flat or round, starting to move again.
The first thing I remember upon returning to London was pure and utter grief and a sense of loss so deep that it nearly overwhelmed me. Country and lover and friends and years gone and far away in the space of one second. The rest of the time at the Professor’s was spent healing, I think. For all of us.
The first thing I remember when I woke up in the real Narnia after the train crash was the way my chest felt so full of warmth and light every moment that I thought I’d burst, or perhaps turn into a star like Ramandu, and the way Aslan laughed and suddenly was ever so much more than even the Lion I had always loved.
Lucy Pevensie
Narnia
336