Don’t make me remember a fond memory today.
I’m remembering memories every other day of the year. A sound, a song, a word, a line, a silhouette, a shadow. I pause to catch myself, shaking through the sensation of it not being you.
Don’t ask me to share a memory because I don’t get to choose when memories come up. Memories are never convenient. I don’t have a file folder of memories, those to share and those not to share. I’ll be damned if they are organized.
It’s two years since you’ve died. The day before I remembered how I didn’t know you were feeling bad. I went to bed and remembered how you hadn’t died yet. I woke up and remembered how I didn’t yet know you had died. The morning passed and I remembered how I now knew you were dead.
The house filled with people throughout the rest of the day and not the mass of those people could make up for one you. A thousand people each with one of your memories cannot be you.
So don’t make me remember a fond memory today.
