I Remember

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
You know how your grandparents can recall their amusing childhood stories with detailed clarity, despite being unable to remember what they were fed for lunch?

Submitted: May 10, 2017

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Submitted: May 10, 2017



I Remember

You know how your grandparents can recall their amusing childhood stories with detailed clarity, despite being unable to remember what they were fed for lunch?

I’m only thirty-seven years old, but I find myself facing the same phenomenon. I remember two years ago better than I can tell you what yesterday’s headline was about. Even if I was the one who wrote that headline and the story beneath it.

I remember the tiny scraps of paper littered like kisses across the chocolate-colored wooden desk she sat at, making paper snowflakes in the middle of July. I remember the electric bill that had lines of poetry scribbled in the corner, her words looping around the climbing figures. I remember the sliding sound of footsteps when she would stick her foot halfway into her slippers and skid around the linoleum floor, pretending she was skating at a rollerblading rink.

I remember how she would always forget to close the lid on her shampoo and conditioner bottles, so that the beige-colored creamy lotion would crust around the edge like a miniature fence around the liquid fragrance. I remember the drip of her toothbrush that she often left hanging over the edge of the sink, the brush turned so that it faced it’s own reflection on the side of the sink bowl. I remember the way she would lump her clothes into disfigured shapes at the end of the bed instead of folding them like I would. Her piles would always stand out like a misspelled word on a Scrabble board, trying to blend in with the rest of the blocks, but I always noticed. I would shove them a few inches apart from mine, as if the disorderliness was contagious.

But I don’t remember what happened yesterday. There were police sirens, that eerie wail that continued as a soundtrack for my entire day. I must have been at some important crime scenes, because my editor told me this morning that my article was brilliant. I didn’t even know he had that word in his repertoire. I wonder which story he was praising. Yesterday’s or the one from the day before that?

The only thing I know without a doubt that happened yesterday was that she wasn’t there. She hasn’t been here for seven hundred thirty days.

There isn’t anything worth remembering besides that.

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