Pickle Memory

A cousin of mine, Christine, died of cancer when she was seven years old. I was eleven or twelve at the time and of course didn’t understand much of what was going on. The last memory I have of her was in her room in her parents’ house. She was propped up in a hospital bed. The only thing I recall from that last visit was her asking me if I’d like a pickle (she had a jar of pickles by her bed). I declined. I’m sure there was other discussion during that final visit, but her offer of a pickle is the only thing I remember. She was dead within a week. Memory is an odd, random thing. Why don’t I have any memories of Chrissy other than the offer of a pickle? It seems so trivial, so mundane. Was there nothing more said or done during her seven years that shouldn’t remain of her for me than that simple gesture? But maybe it’s just the simple gesture – the offering of a pickle from a dying young girl to a still unaware young boy – that seeps into the mind and creates a memory. Maybe it’s enough.