I’m washing the paint off my hands, and thinking about how it feels like a lot of my memories are slowly, warmly, slipping out of my grasp. A small hiccup as it reaches the drain, then swirls as it descends.
I can’t remember certain things. I can’t remember the phone number of the first house that I was raised in. I can’t remember my second kiss. I can’t remember the first boy who told me he loved me.
I can’t remember names. I can’t remember the name of the boy I adored in the 1st grade, back when I was built and looked like a boy myself. I can’t remember the name of the guy who beat me in pool three weeks ago then asked if he could kiss me on the cheek. I remember I told him no.
I can’t remember the last time I let rain fall freely onto my face. I can’t remember the last time I stubbed my toe. I can’t remember the last time I let my soul sweep along with the plot of a movie. Mostly, because a lot of my life feels like a movie.
I can remember my first concert. I can remember the name of the boy who was my first kiss, where it was, and who all else was in the apartment. I can remember my ex boyfriend telling me that he loved me over the phone in jumbled exclamations of confusion.
I can remember hugging my sister goodbye before she went to go board her plane to Alaska at 4am in Philadelphia. I can remember my mother making me a Robin Hood costume when I was 6 years old. I remember painting my bedroom the same style as a torn out page from a Martha Stewart magazine, the year I was going to be a teenager. I remember I hated it by my sophomore year.
I remember a friend telling me that a former friend had passionately declared that she “hated me”. I remember a boy with rough hands, sharp eyes and a soft mouth who spent a summer telling me how pretty I was to him. I remember when I threw my first party and someone threw up on a rug I had bought especially for the party. I remember I was outside when it happened telling my brother that I knew best, and inwardly berating him for his smoking habit.
I remember an Alabama boy with a wide grin and kind eyes telling me secrets over the phone when I was 20. I remember greeting the sunrise with teary eyes, bad breath and a will to do something good with my day.
I remember last week. I remember what music was playing from the jukebox, and my friend Nate was whistling along to the tune. I remember the light coming into the room, and the score on the pool table. I remember he was my partner that day. Trusting me. Laughing and smiling with us all. I remember seeing him a couple days later, and he hugged me and called me sweetheart. I remember laughing and telling him he had to be my pool partner again.
Nate was in a car accident last night, and now he’s gone. I remember this morning getting a call at 7:30am letting me know, seeing all the dedications to this man, today. I remember spending today drinking a lot of water. I remember sanding and painting my kitchen cabinets. I remember I nearly lost the entire gallon of paint when I knocked it over.
I can’t remember if I said goodbye to Nate last week or if I just waved and smiled.
I can remember, and I can’t. I’m just selfish and I don’t want to lose anything, or let anything slip away.
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