On memory

I began taking a creative writing class and one of the prompts we had to write about was something we had forgotten. I’m typically a very forgetful person and I still haven’t fully come to terms with it. It’s difficult for me to remember people’s faces, even those who raised me. I can’t even remember my own face and each time I look in the mirror I am shocked. I asked my friend something they have forgotten and they began speaking about people who had died. Every individual really does have millions of perceptions. Millions of yous. Is your perception who you are? I think most of the time when someone dies you create a false perception that that person is flawless and truly one of God’s children (even if they didn’t associate with religion.) I think it’s interesting how after death your bad memories with that person dissipate. They were not a drunk and suffering but an angel that left too soon. How unexpected? Me and my friend sometimes share experiences with our passed loved ones. Mainly because we know no one else would really understand or feel comfortable enough to even hear about the subject matter.

My friend’s Aunt died a few years ago. She was an alcoholic, insomniac that abused stimulants. This led to epileptic shock. I can tell there is tenderness within her when she speaks of her but the main emotion pushing through is anger. Why would she do such things if she knew it would kill her? She knew. Why isn’t anyone else angry? I think she feels this anger because she sees herself in her and me with my passed loved one. If I were in their shoes… and we are… I would do the same thing. And so we do.

I try to look for fragments of my past loved one everywhere I go but my memory is shy. The only thing he has left for me is a warning sign I do not follow. I look for him in Belize where I grew up and I do not find him. He is all around me his sweat is practically absorbed in every surface I touch, but I am always separate, I will always not remember, and I might always be lost. I look for him in family, the ones that don’t refuse to talk about him, and try to pretend it is him telling these stories. But the details are convoluted and twisted and different depending on the tongue that speaks– he was a clever cunning man I think. How much longer do I have until my perception is deluded the same as theirs?

I love you.

I love you.

I will not forget that.

I wonder a lot if I am forgetting myself because of my memory problems. I ask my doctor if it is normal to not remember which of your life is yours and he waves me off and murmurs some medical terms I do not understand. Is it still me if I don’t remember the land I was raised in? I tell people I was born in the Ocean because water holds secrets and I have always viewed it as my origin more than the land. I have been taken from the sea to a port city in Belize with a yellow house and a red door where the hibiscus never stop blooming. Or to the enclosed concrete in Fort Lauderdale, Florida where it is always grey despite the everlasting sunshine, or maybe the house in the rainforest with the dogs atop the hill, the light green walls and the scent of oranges and waterfalls. Maybe even the city of Miami, Florida where I watched myself grow old.

Are they lies? Which of these are mine and do I have a right to hold possession if I no longer remember? Do I have a right to anything less than the present?