Memory

One of my biggest fears is that I’ll forget about you. That your touch, taste, sound, smell and true (un-pixelated, un-Skype-filtered) look will fade from my memory. That I’ll forget more of our past and how things were and how we felt than I already have. Three years is a lot of stuff to remember. If I believed in God, I would thank him for giving you such a wonderful memory and an acute attention for detail. (But since I don’t, I guess I’ll just thank your ill mother and absent father, as much as I hate their guts.) Three years is such an awful lot to remember. Not only does my internal memory disk not hold that much, but it corrupts some files that I do have. I just can’t trust it. But you, my wonderful external hard drive, you keep things for me. Thank you.

                I wish I could download my files of you onto you, so they wouldn't go bad. Which they are, every day. It scares me so much, because I want to hold on to you. Everything that you were and are – everything – I need it with me. I need it so I can retrieve it when we’re together again, so I can know where to pick up. So I can remember how far you've come. Thus I torture myself into seeing you as often as I can. To looking through your photos. To remembering you whenever I have time. True, a lot of this happens involuntarily, but I feel it’s partially because my subconscious is trying to back up the JPEGS and MP3’s that are somewhat quickly degrading in quality. And also, of course, because you make me happy. Though, it’s kind of funny, because when I’m sobbing over how much I miss you and am pleading to “the universe” to let you hear me, I’m saying “He makes me so happy.” But you really do. What hurts is not having you here. Not being with you. Not being able to call you my own. Not knowing if you’ll ever come back for me. And if you don’t, you’ll take our memories with you. Because without you… we will disappear. And I just can’t bear the thought of that.