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amulMemory.
As I heaved a sheet of masonite over my head, I remembered. Arrakis, the Entertainment Room. Christine tells me, "You've been starting them. C'mon! I've never known you to have a conversation you didn't want. You've been wanting to talk about Hinduism more." It's an audio-only memory.
As I stared at a cooler of drinks, I remembered. A day at the Cleveland Museum of Art, and on the drive back I follow the middle lane until it disappears. Christine and I mock-argue when it reappears. Hey, man. The lane left me! I'm not going to crawl back to it. I stared forward as I said it, did not look at her.
As I tell a story I've forgotten the point to, Comfortingly Bouncy tells me about a bread truck that was surprisingly kind to her. I turn to face her as she reaches the punch-line, and see a reflection of Christine in the window. I do not see her face.
Memory.
Lying back on a couch in the first home I've had in six months, my sojourn as a Nomadic Prius Dweller ended. I suddenly sit up and exclaim, I could just write her off. Unsilent Spectator whispers in a frightened voice, "You shouldn't make any decisions about anything right now."
As I read an LJ post, I remembered. Pulling French Onion Soup out of the oven and absent-mindedly lighting the candles on the dinner table. "I've never had a candlelit dinner before," she coos.
As I ride back in the van towards the warehouse, I remembered. You're never just a Midget or a Retard, you're always some queer combination of both.
Dual memories, like twin popsicle sticks. Nearly eight years apart, both Christine and Roo bought me Winnie-the-Pooh balloons for my birthday.
Memories. Not one of them contains her face, but I remember her all the same.
Unpaintable Canvas asked me once, "Do you ever think about her?" Every day. Think I will for the rest of my life.
But I can't remember her face.
If hesitation is a word, and silence a dialogue, then absence must be a novel.
As I heaved a sheet of masonite over my head, I remembered. Arrakis, the Entertainment Room. Christine tells me, "You've been starting them. C'mon! I've never known you to have a conversation you didn't want. You've been wanting to talk about Hinduism more." It's an audio-only memory.
As I stared at a cooler of drinks, I remembered. A day at the Cleveland Museum of Art, and on the drive back I follow the middle lane until it disappears. Christine and I mock-argue when it reappears. Hey, man. The lane left me! I'm not going to crawl back to it. I stared forward as I said it, did not look at her.
As I tell a story I've forgotten the point to, Comfortingly Bouncy tells me about a bread truck that was surprisingly kind to her. I turn to face her as she reaches the punch-line, and see a reflection of Christine in the window. I do not see her face.
Memory.
Lying back on a couch in the first home I've had in six months, my sojourn as a Nomadic Prius Dweller ended. I suddenly sit up and exclaim, I could just write her off. Unsilent Spectator whispers in a frightened voice, "You shouldn't make any decisions about anything right now."
As I read an LJ post, I remembered. Pulling French Onion Soup out of the oven and absent-mindedly lighting the candles on the dinner table. "I've never had a candlelit dinner before," she coos.
As I ride back in the van towards the warehouse, I remembered. You're never just a Midget or a Retard, you're always some queer combination of both.
Dual memories, like twin popsicle sticks. Nearly eight years apart, both Christine and Roo bought me Winnie-the-Pooh balloons for my birthday.
Memories. Not one of them contains her face, but I remember her all the same.
Unpaintable Canvas asked me once, "Do you ever think about her?" Every day. Think I will for the rest of my life.
But I can't remember her face.
If hesitation is a word, and silence a dialogue, then absence must be a novel.
