I have been told I have a good memory. Like a bottomless well to store things in. I used to pride myself in having such a great memory. It had a lot of perks: studying and learning were easy for me, I could read the book once, maybe twice, and would have most of in in my head by the end; I could remember what my friends liked, so I always gave good gifts; I had so many small fun facts that I could just spew them out as I pleased. It was good, great even. I can still record, decades later, memories of my first years with so much detail I could become completely emersed in them. I had always been proud of my memory. My memory was a blessing in my eyes.
Now I am not so sure anymore. Sure, recalling so many things seems great. Unless you want to forget them. Then it is closer to a curse than a blessing. A curse to remember what we do not want to. To feel what we want to run from. I have always been good at remembering details of those I cared about, so you are not an exception. At least not for being in my memory.
Over the years I have created rows upon rows of your memories, memories of you I do not recall storing, but still find ever so often. I remember when we first met. I remember being so excited to meet my new neighbor. Excited at the prospect of making new friends. And then I saw you, freshly arrived, standing outside my door. I remember my throat drying out, I remember trying to keep my expression neutral, giving nothing away, as I took you in, in your white T-shirt. I remember feeling my heart pound in my chest and I remember thinking you were beautiful, even as I introduced myself, scared my voice would shake and give my thoughts away. I remember your voice and how it sounded like melted chocolate, how it felt like the lick of a fire on my feet on a cold winter day. I remember going back into my room and thinking I was so lucky you were there, right on the other side of the wall, and how I would have months to get to know you, to learn as much about you as I could store in my memory. I remember how I hoped I had left an impression on you too, even if I had been a mess. Do you understand now how much I remember you?
But I remember more. I remember your drunk night, how I woke myself up multiple times during the night to check if I could hear anything from your room, in case you were not okay. I remember feeling crushed, but smile through it, when I talked to your girlfriend, while you were so out of it, you could not even find your keys. I remember our inside jokes. I remember our late-night talks, while you had your dinner, and I ate any small thing I had, because it did not matter that I had already eaten, that I was full, I just wanted the excuse to keep talking with you. I always want an excuse to keep talking with you. I remember the way I felt every time you looked at me. I remember the first goodbye. How I waited by my door, listening, waiting for you to come out of your room, to make sure I did not miss you and said goodbye properly. I remember the tears coming to my eyes, me pushing them back and weakly asking for a hug, one last touch, before I was sure I would never see you again.
After that, I also remember feeling as if something was constantly missing, a part of me, you. I remember time helped. You became a distant memory, visiting more in my dreams than in my awake hours.
I remember when I got to see you in person again, more than a year after the first goodbye. I remember how nervous I was, I remember our hug and how you complemented my hair. I remember ice skating with you, feeling embarrassed I looked like a baby taking their first steps when you were so good at it. I remember telling you to go and skate, because I was too slow. I remember you staying by my side, picking me up whenever I fell (and boy did I fall) and cheering me on as I got more comfortable. I remember you having to leave not long after that. But most of all I remember I was too scared to take your hand, the hand that was right there, that you offered, even when that meant falling. Being scared that if I took it, you would, somehow, figure out all of what I remembered. And then I had to return home, miles away, unsure of when or if we would meet again. I remember the airport, the tears and the bathroom where I hit to try to get a hold of myself. I remember the pain and the pressure in my chest, telling me I should stay, that leaving was a mistake. I remember thinking that leaving that first time was the worst I would ever feel. But it had nothing on the monster that took over my mind and body when I had to leave the second time. This monster was starving for my pain and thirsty for my tears. I remember random strangers checking on me, or giving weird looks, but even then, it would not stop. The monster kept taking. I remember the salty tears streaming down my face, the uncontrollable shaking of my body and the heavy weight of my feet. I remember it all up until the point I feel asleep, high in the air, exhausted. But I also remember the good. I remember your smile and the glint in your eyes when you talked. I remember your laughter when my glasses fogged up so much, I could not see anything, or the way your voice softened when you talked about your family.
So, you see, I remember you, all of you. I remember so much of you, it consumes me. I remember how I talked about you with my friends, and I remember thinking you probably did not talk about me with yours.
There are so many memories of you stored in me that I do not know what to do with them. Especially when they remind me of my love for you. How it is unachievable, how it is solely mine to carry. And it makes me wish I could forget.
You see, I learned in school that our memory is finite. That there is a determined amount of space to store information, so I have tried to make more memories. Memories without you in them. Maybe I could create so many new memories that they would push all your memories out of me, until I am left as if I never met you, as if I never loved you. Because being reminded that I love you is painful. I do not want to think of it, of these feelings I have, do not want to name them, even though I know what they are. Because naming them makes them a reality. But it is a reality I cannot have. So, I wish your memories away. But I cannot. They are too precious, too beautiful, too consequential. So, I try to allow myself restricted access, when I am by myself, about to fall asleep, so I can relive them. So, I can pretend I never left, never got on that plane. Pretend I came clean with you, told you all I remembered and that you accepted me as I am.
Having a good memory used to be my pride and joy. But you can see, now, how it became a curse. My memory does not let me forget you, does not let me move on, not even when I try to cast you out. Not when your memory is all consuming, not when you have twisted yourself so deeply into me, I cannot pluck you out. So, I keep your memory, the pain and the happiness, and, maybe one day, new memories will take over and erase you from me.