Ok. Replying to first comment. Seeing if this works. In response to what
  • Deb
  • wrote, I'll post the following memory. I'm modifying the response to fit my format, because I remember how much I hated the last Shakespearean sonnet I had to write (intro to lit my freshman year of college). Also, I am not particularly good at love letters. But I will remember:

    I stopped at the bridge, parking my bike near a bench. I didn't do much biking until after she left. It was dark, about 11 p.m. on a late summer evening. I was listening to sad songs on my discman and looking out over the river, trying to feel sad for a reason. Now, it sounds trite, but at the time it meant everything. "I never knew ::song:: could be so sad until you left," is what I wrote. I don't remember the song; it might have been Ben Harper. I wrote a lot of things, but that's the part that I remember most, because I really didn't understand sad love songs until that moment. It was before the long-distance relationship wasn't just something we said instead of goodbye forever. It had only been a week, then. We were still calling each other every night; she made me read the letter over the phone. It took me a long time. I think I sent it - I know I don't still have it.


    Remem-bo-ring: how this works.

    I couldn't sleep last night, so I started writing down some of my more vivid memories - the kind that stay with you and occasionally pop into your head during dinner or riding the bus or at a job interview. I'm not looking to unlock the secrets of my psyche through my past. So don't think that. But I do have too much time on my hands. I'm not very good at sticking with something once I've started, but I had an idea. There are lots of blogs where people send in ideas or requests and the blogger complies, posting about what he/she did. This isn't very different. E-mail me a request to remember something, and I'll try. Then I'll write about it. Some things you should know:
    -I'm only 22 (don't ask me to remember my retirement party, or my wedding day).
    -I'm a girl (boy memories, like first boner, do not apply)
    -I grew up on a farm (which means I never went to day-care and didn't have the luxury of pizza-delivery or go to the mall until I was 13).
    -I recently graduated from college (but I still don't have a real job).


    We went to see a girl we had gone to high school with. She had gone to Ireland and lived with host families and done more drugs than either of us. We sat on the couch in her apartment while she sat in a chair facing us and telling stories. She showed us fresh fruit and vegetables – the main staples of her diet, she said – and offered us wine. A dog and a cat played at our feet, occasionally jumping into crotches. The night had been a bust for her, since she had gotten kicked out of a bar for being underage. Things had been much easier in Ireland, except for getting kicked out of the host family’s house, she said. I played with the dog, not saying much. In high school, she had been a much-rumored lesbian, but now, she told stories about driving down steep hills in a stickshift with her boyfriend. He and I both still found her attractive; we’d each had crushes on her at some point during high school. When we left, I hadn’t had any of the wine.


    In the back of the station wagon, I can barely contain my excitement. We are bringing my cousin, a special treat. Once we get there, we are separated. I don’t remember why. She goes with my dad and comes back bearing a giant inflatable crayon. I spend the rest of the day being jealous. Being heavy for my age, I win the tractor pull. She wants to trade her big balloon with lots of little balloons inside of it for my trophy. I consider it, but luckily I am smart enough to recognize the transience of the balloons. I congratulate myself on making this choice once I am at home, displaying my trophy on the shelf. My mother takes pictures of me in a pink shirt with a unicorn on it holding my trophy and wearing my ribbon. Later, at the doctor’s office, I get a rainbow sticker and leave it on the shirt when I put it in the hamper. It gets ruined in the wash.


    I am lying on my stomach, staring into the wooden boards of the deck my father built. It is a long summer on the farm, waiting until the school year starts again to see children my own age. My brother is mostly too little to be of any importance. The wood is gray and weathered; my mother admonishes me for going barefoot, afraid I will get splinters. I stare into the grain of the wood. I am bored bored bored. I feel a need to capture this moment, to hold onto it for a minute and think about it. But then I realize as soon as my thought is over, so is the moment, so is the second, so is everything. I am struck by this, frustrated by the fact that everything is either past or future, there is no present. I spend a long time thinking about it, eventually deciding that without the ability to hold onto a specific moment, particularly a happy one, there is no reason in looking forward to anything, since it will all end. There is only a series of ever-changing events. I am twelve years old.


    Josh and I are playing hockey on our rollerblades. I am wearing my favorite sweatshirt and a pair of Levi’s Silvertab jeans I haven’t washed in two weeks. I heard a popular girl in geography class talking about them, and got my mom to buy me a pair at JCPenney. Josh says if he scores a goal on me he gets to kiss me. I don’t remember what I was supposed to get if he didn’t, but he won. When winter comes, we play who can throw the snowball the furthest. I throw so hard it hurts my arm, but I still lose.

    Josh gets to throw a snowball at my face.