Playing Super Mario 2 with My Kid on My Old Nintendo
He marvels at how I locate every buried
potion. That I know when to uproot a radish
and heave. I sack a shush of Shy Guys
and wonder what better knowledge
I’ve surrendered to preserve space
for this: the thumb-click sequence required
to commandeer the flying carpet. Though
science says I’m wrong—we have near-limitless
repositories. It’s the access that we lose,
our brains sometimes erasing pathways
to make us more adaptable.
I like the nearness of this dream world
of Mario’s. I always choose Peach because the dress
catches air when I jump and I can float along
for a bit. The ability to jump, to make your signature,
to navigate a known place like your childhood
home—all examples of motor memory,
which we acquire through repetition and draw on
unconsciously. Motor memory doesn’t decline
with age so I could forever find the way
to my bedroom in that single-wide,
were it still there. My hand could scrawl
my name on anything I thought was mine.
I could keep chasing magic
carpets. Keep breaking the beaker of potion
to reveal the key. My kid cheers—we found the key!—
but ghosts give chase and I never
formed memory of how to put
them
behind me. When I die of ghost-shock,
my kid knows we can do
better. With kindness,
pats the hand not holding the controller.
Better Home, Better Gardens
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