I rely on my memory as I do my legs. My memory holds me up. It's as firm and level as a freshly paved road. I don't forget faces or names. I remember dates, birthdays, anniversaries. I can place scents, quotes, settings, milestones, and until recently, tragedies.
I hold grudges. It's nothing I'm proud of, but I don't pretend to be unaware. I recall every slight, every word yelled in anger, every misstep and detail leading up to a falling out. Estrangements which stretch on so long that the parties involved don't remember the reason for the dispute? I know nothing of that.
Sure, it's pride. I'm proud of knowing how I came to be where I am. Keeps regret at bay. But those who know too much or think they're perfect have never sat well with me.
My memory has decided to remind me of that.
A room I knew so well. Spent heaps of time there. But as I stand in that familiarity, a word unspoken takes me to a place I'd not thought of since I was there last. With him. A day I'd blocked out. A moment of happiness and serenity that now tastes of bile.
We'd never been happy. We were never so close. In these facts and phrases, I put stock. But they can be rewritten. We'd never been so happy. We were never so close...as we were that day.
Am I remembering things wrong? Is this revisionist? How many other things have I forgotten? How to get them back?
Of late, I've started descending into periods of gray. It's a fuzzy station where I can't find the noun I want. I stammer and digress until I find a suitable substitute, but I'm left feeling shaky. My memory is spotting. Perhaps spite was my undoing. But it wasn't spite. I remembered where I was and how I got there. I still do.
But it's those extra thoughts—those strays.
Part of me wishes to remember nothing at all.