� What is in a memory? � 2003-03-02 � 10:08 p.m. �
I have a fantasic memory for tiny detail and that makes me thoughtful... and sensitive to people who believe it's good to have a memory like that... but recalling every memory that meant anything... recalling it by a scent, a sound or a touch... or by the still frame I have locked in this vault-brain of mine... drives me crazy.
Perhaps for all my losses I have two souls... maybe my sister lives on within me that way... Perhaps I remember things for her, for everything she never lived, or saw or felt... so, in whatever form she maybe in, she's never left out.
Or maybe everything i am sure I remember are not my memories at all... My mother swears I remember things I was much too young to hold onto... things we don't even have picture for.... Things no one has ever told me... but when I've expressed them, she's confirmed them to be true.
Crawling across the kitchen table to my grandfather calling me "Liddle Lady"... in a yellow and white terry sleeper..... It felt late... very late... I was tired... and I couldn't wait to make it to him..... the five foot table felt like miles... when I made it to him he curled me under his left arm.... big, strong arms... he smelled of cigarettes and beer mostly... of sweat and hard work.... his breath was wraspy..... he held me tight and rubbed the top of my right food with his thumb.... with his right hand he held a bottle to my lips and calmly whispered.... "You'll close those pretty preepers for Grampa, won't you?" I don't think I drank from a bottle after I was two.
And though that memory was pleasant, I have many that aren't... many that visit me constantly by sense.
I knew someone who believed we all have a role in life... some are leaders... some followers... some stand in between and dance circles around themselves... and it's in what we are suppose to do that defines what we'll be.... we must accept it and the toture it brings.
He called me a keeper... that my name and personality defines me as one meant to hold all things scared and keep them safe. Truth, Love, Peace and Family... and all that I keep is all I believe in with fury.
Now maybe he just knew me well, but I don't think he did... maybe he was blowing air... but maybe he was right... maybe my acute memory is evidence of it... I believe strongly in love and truth and peace. i don't believe in hate or war... I don't stand for hurting and I can't justify it.
My struggle in life has always been the past for me... the constant replay. Most of us suffer some degree of misfortune... and mine continues constantly because I don't or can't forget it.
Monday, March 18, 1996 at 4:10 pm my brother killed a boy who lived on our street. My bus drove by.... and without seeing him, I knew. I pushed my way off the bus... I would have jumped off had Walter not stopped. I stood there between the bus and my brother's care staring into a puddle of blood so deep, until a cop forced me back on the bus and go home. Grey pants, burgundy top, black sweater... I smelled of expensive perfume and tears.... I stumbled down the street hoping I was wrong altogether... but when I saw my uncle hanging over our sundeck.... head low and water falling like fountains off his cheeks I lost all control. I sat down in the muddy road and screamed... I layed like a child having a tantrum. In all the weight I couldn't cope.
And so the girl who thought she knew everything then knew nothing.... and has known nothing definitely since.
And in ever detail I can recount for you that day... from what i wore to what i did at school... and I can recount for you in the greatest details the day before and the days after... I can paint for you with concrete confidence the look on my little cousin's face when I was too torn, too confused and hurt and angy and hateful to get out of bed for her birthday dinner..... I can tell you what Jason smelled like when he wrapped himself around me the next day... all day he didn't let me go.... I can taste Nate's lips.... I can hear Dylan's voice and feel Jay's weight on the side of my bed when I wouldn't wake up anymore.
And like two fire balls of blue are my brother's eyes burned forever in my memory.
Most people don't understand the symbolizism of that day.... most people can't conceive why i wouldn't forget....
But you know, I really don't think I have the ability too.... I half wonder if forgetting is a learned thing.... or if that guy was right and it's simply my role in life to be the keeper of memories... to keep them all, good and bad alive.
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