remember

I live in the moment. I don't mean that I'm spontaneous or that I make wild, rash decisions. No, I mean that I forget what yesterday felt like, what last week looked like, what 2008 even vaguely resembled. It all becomes faded and jumbled into one dream-like sequence, the only constant being this little flame inside of me that burns life and says "I'm here, this is real, you're ok but don't forget."

I've known since I was little that I am like this. I forced myself to remember things, remember memories-- I'd repeat them over and over, ask myself, "what are you supposed to remember?" and then I'd play the scene in my head like a movie. I did this so that one day, far in the distant future, when my parents and loved ones are gone, I can hold onto these real, true memories and know that at one point they existed, at one point they loved me, and at one point in time we were together. That above all else will make me know I exist and existed. 

My mother and I were in the front yard. I was about 10. It was a beautiful spring day, bright blue sky with puffy white clouds, yellow daffodils blooming, bees buzzing and birds singing-- the kind of day you can't even imagine unless you live down here. Mom was squatting in the flower bed, ripping out weeds and humming. It was one of her favorite things to do, she thinks it's cleansing. She said "Oh. Here, honey," and reached out her hand to me. I skipped over and in her hand was a penny. "It's warm from the earth," she said, and I felt that warmth, can still feel that warmth, in my hand, and I put it in my pocket.

My dad and I were in the kitchen. I was about 11 or 12. We had just gotten home from one of my softball games, and we had lost. I was upset, and not just because of the loss-- a girl on the other team had made fun of my name and called me a terrible word. I cried and my dad, a large bear of a man, held me to his chest and told me that I was beautiful and perfect and said "it's my fault for picking out your name, but none of it matters because I love you now and I always will." I told him, begged him to know that I loved my name because he picked it for me. His heart was beating and I could hear it while he hugged me. I focused on that sound and knew that my life and his are always going to be intertwined, even after we are both gone.

I wish I had done this more, forced myself into keeping more of these memories. I know they're real because I can still see them in my head, but there are no pictures of these moments in an album anywhere, nothing that could have corrupted them other than time and sloshing around in my mixed up brain, but I kept these locked away so that they were impervious to that sloshing. 

So many memories are gone now. My grandfather passed two years ago. He was more like a father to me; they lived down the street from us and I would spend just as much time at their house as I would my own. I can't remember his voice, I can barely remember his face. I remember what he looked like out in his yard on his riding lawnmower. I remember that he loved me, mostly because I still feel that love reaching out to me from somewhere. I remember my last hug. I knew that it would be my last one, so I took two and cried for hours afterwards. But I don't have one of my real memories for him, one of my little movies. I need to crawl up in his attic and find the old VHSs of Christmas's and birthdays. Maybe that will help me remember.