Author Matthew Heneghan

Have you ever found yourself tucked within the embrace of reverie that is both joy and sorrow intertwined? I’d suspect it’s a common thing among most of us. Life is, after all, a compilation of both jubilance and solemnity. A twisted dance in the art of duality. This last weekend I had the distinction of attending a writers’ gala as a guest of honour. I was invited after having won first place for a piece I submitted to their nonfiction category. The event takes place in Salmon Arm once a year. Salmon Arm… a special place to me. A geographic staple of my formative years, and a town that resides quietly in memory as a place of simpler times. Even when the reality of those times was not so simple.

Memory is a peculiar acquaintance that way; it lingers as a ghost that haunts our days, and a muse that inspires our nights. Or, in my case and on many of occasion, simply chooses to haunt, as a spectral sliver of a life that once was.

Life was complicated growing up in that quaint sprawl in the namesake of a fish. I knew it back then, but I am just now as an adult learning the depth and breadth of that complexity. The town is big enough that not every one knows everyone, but still small enough that for certain someone knows of someone that will know of someone else. 

At the gala, I would hear a voice. A distinct and memorable oration. I turned to see who it was that was calling my name, and though no name came to me when confronting the features of a slightly woman, an instant call of remembrance did. I knew this woman. I just did not immediately understand how.

When I was young and my mum got sick with cancer and depression, she would often lament that she did not have the energy to deal with me. At times saying I was “too much,” or “a little sod.” A British slander that essentially means “annoying.” As such, she’d often ship me out to willing conversances that would house me for a time. Sometimes I’d have no idea who these people were.

Standing now at cordial distance, a flurry of past images and moments came back to me. I had stayed in their home on a number of occasions. I recalled their daughter, Tasha, a girl with down syndrome that was my age. Being young, I was likely less grateful than I should have been for the hospitality, but other homes were not where I wanted to be. I had nothing in common with Tasha other than age. She was great and all, but she had her own life and circle of friends. There were spans of time where I’d spend so much time at these other peoples’ homes that the adults, like the lady who had called my name at the gala, would have to buy me clothes as I would typically only arrive with an overnight bag. That’s what I now call “optimistic packing.”

The entire interaction was awkward and almost fake in its nicety. Or maybe I am just projecting? Either way, it was a less than ideal way to start the evening’s festivities. Those memories are not typically forefront for me, so any evocation that demands recall of that time in my life typically comes with some introspective discomfort attached. I’m not blaming the lady. I’m not even blaming my mother. It’s just how things were and how things went down is all.

After successfully navigating that social encounter, we made our way into the ballroom and found our table. I was happy to be seated. But just as memories exist for me, they dwell within others as well.

“Matthew… are you, Matthew Heneghan?” Another lady’s voice queried. She was at the table in front of ours, and she must have taken note of my entering the ballroom.

“I am — yes.”

“I’m Jordan’s mom…” The moment she said that is the very moment the grey in her hair vanished from view and all familiar features of a woman I once knew returned to me. Jordan’s mom. I played on the same hockey team as Jordan. I should preface that the only reason I was able to play hockey was because of the kindness of our local church, they paid for everything, all fees, tournament costs, some gear, the works. At some point during my lackluster playing career, I ended up on Jordan’s team. A kid that was always kind to me, despite being much more popular than myself.

When I say the church paid for almost everything, I mean it. But they couldn’t cover the costs of every little thing. I’m referring to the after-game meals at some fast-food place that often occurred, especially during tournaments. My family was not what you would call, wealthy, living in subsidised housing and dining on once-a-month government income. So, while all the other kids ran to the counter to order unabated, I’d try my best to quietly blend into the background and become invisible. I didn’t want to admit to the boys that I had no money to eat. Shame gnawed at my insides almost as bad as the hunger itself some days.

On many of occasion, Jordan’s mom would somehow find me in my invisible state and ask why I was not going up to order. I’d usually lie and say that I wasn’t hungry. I was. I think she knew that, so she’d tell me not to worry about it and she’d buy me a meal here and there. Many of the parents did this over the few years that I played. As much as there’s happiness in that recall, there’s also a weighted shadow of shame and self-ridicule. Strike two on an evening where I was set to stand in the spotlight.

Shame, an ever-present spectator in my life, clings to me like the web from a spider. It’s always there, even when others can’t see it, it’s there. I feel it.

Memories, so damn captivating in their duality. The forever angel and demon on our shoulder. Some days it feels like a ruthless tormentor that drags us back to the places we’d rather forget, and other times its like the soft whisper from a lover. The beat of our hearts, helpless in the rhythm of remembrance.

Salmon Arm is a place linked with a peculiar name and a complex past for some. Turns out, I’m a lifelong member in the fraternity of ‘some’.