remember

| June 9th, 2016

I have a strange memory.

People come up to me, and tell me that they knew me in school. I have no idea who they are.

I have little interpersonal memory. Sorry.

But I remember so much trivia from movies, or literature or books. So many minute details. Pebbles that shined amongst the sand.

I also remember sensual things. The way my mother shuddered when I’d hold her after she got out of the hospital. I remember her hair falling out as she brushed it. I remember the smell of stale Merlot and Urine. I remember how steady her heart beat was as I hugged her. I remember her breath being ragged when I was little, and feeling her ribs. I remember as she grew stronger as I grew older, and yet as she beat cancer, she succumbed to another disease.

I remember the smell of sweat, and cologne as pressed my head against my father’s belly. I remember how it grew softer, and larger through the years. I remember his big hands running through my hair, and the baritone voice that would read poetry to me.

I remember the smell of lavender my first real girlfriend used to use to cover up the smell of vodka and whiskey and vomit in her apartment.

I remember the soft snore the first night I spent with my wife. I thought it was adorable, and disturbing. I remember the sounds of her neighbor’s yippy dog, and the smell of her apartment; rice and paint. and Lake Street. I remember the muffled sound of fiesta as I would drift off on her couch.

A strange memory perhaps. But beautiful too.

I’m sorry if I don’t remember you.

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