Long Memories

5 generations of knowing from the start.

Generation 1: Eleanor


I came into the world screaming, not out of fear, but frustration. I knew everything—Mother’s first kiss under the oak tree, the sting of her father’s belt, the smell of rain on her wedding day. Her memories were mine, vivid as if I’d lived them, though I hadn’t. I tried to tell her, “I know you, Mama,” but my tongue, fat and clumsy, only managed a garbled “Ah-noo-oo.” She laughed, cooing at what she thought was nonsense, while I seethed inside this tiny, useless body.


It took months to train my lips and throat, to force the sounds into words. By my first birthday, I sat in my high chair and said, clear as day, “You cried when Papa left for the war.” Mother dropped the spoon, her face pale. She called it a miracle, then a curse. The village priest wasn’t so sure—his eyes narrowed when I recited her memory of confessing a stolen apple at age nine.


I grew up fast, too fast, burdened by her joys and sorrows. When I had my own daughter, I wondered: would she know me as I’d known Mother?


Generation 2: Clara


I emerged choking, not on fluid, but on rage. Mother—Eleanor—had dreaded my birth, fearing I’d inherit her gift. She was right. I knew her shame at the priest’s stare, her pride at outsmarting the miller’s son, the ache of losing her first love. I tried to shout, “I’m here, and I know!” but my mouth betrayed me with a wail.


By six months, I’d mastered it. “You hid the silver from Papa,” I said one night, my voice high and sharp. She flinched, then wept. She taught me to hide it—said the world wasn’t ready. But I couldn’t un-know her, and when I bore my son, I felt the same dread she had. This trait, this curse, it was mine to pass on.


Generation 3: Thomas


I was born laughing. Mother—Clara—thought me a quiet child until I looked up from the cradle and said, “You danced with the baker’s boy.” Her memories were a jumble of secrets and small triumphs, and I loved them all. My body was slow, but my mind raced. At ten months, I told her, “You’re stronger than you think,” echoing her own buried belief.


The village whispered about us by then—three generations of “wise babes.” I didn’t care. I married young, eager to see if my child would know me too. When my daughter arrived, her first cry was a knowing one. I smiled.


Generation 4: Margaret


I hated it from the start. Mother—Thomas—had lived a loud life, full of laughter and reckless bets, and I knew every second of it. I spat out, “You lost the horse on purpose,” at eight months, my voice a rasp from the effort. His grin faltered—he hadn’t expected me to judge him.
I didn’t want this. I didn’t want his victories or his shame. But it was mine, and when my son was born, I saw his eyes flicker with recognition. He knew me—my anger, my wish to be free of this legacy. I whispered, “I’m sorry,” and he gurgled back, already trying to answer.


Generation 5: Samuel


I was born tired. Mother—Margaret—had fought her whole life against this gift, and I felt every bruise of her resistance. I knew her, and through her, Thomas, Clara, Eleanor—all of them, a chorus in my skull. At four months, I managed, “You can’t stop it,” and she wept, because she knew I was right.


I’m five now, and my voice is strong. I tell stories of my great-great-grandmother Eleanor’s wedding, of Clara’s hidden silver, of Thomas’s lost horse. The village listens, half in awe, half in fear. My mother says I’ll pass it on too—our trait, dominant, unrelenting. I wonder what my child will think of me, knowing me before I’ve even begun.


Five generations, bound by memory, each voice sharper, each burden heavier. It’s a gift that demands to be spoken, a legacy that won’t be silenced.