The ME in Memory

Do you recall that warm afternoon when we shared licks and exchanged silly looks over flavored popsicles?

As I sit here holding your hand, I hope you do.

We’ve shared so many mornings, afternoons, and nights—sometimes laughing until we couldn’t breathe, sometimes crying until we couldn’t stop, and sometimes screaming at each other as only people who truly care can do. 

You were the bossy one, always doing the "right" thing, making sure I followed the rules—the endless rules for everything. I was the fun one, dragging you into shenanigans you probably would have avoided if not for me. And you loved it, even when you pretended not to.

Together, we traveled to faraway places, drank wine so bad it was almost funny, and made a pact to keep each other’s secrets locked away forever. We built a history—a lifetime. Then, somewhere along the way, something shifted. I saw it happen quietly, in pieces. Your memories of our shared decades began to fade, slipping away like sand through your fingers.

And I knew.

I knew you needed me.

I’m here to remind you.

Memories are strange, aren’t they? They can be a gift and a burden all at once. Most days, they seem to cling to the moments of pain more than the ones of joy. But as I look into your eyes and show you photos of that warm afternoon—of popsicle licks, silly looks, and a world that felt endless—I see the fear in you. The fear of slipping further away from those moments, from yourself, from us.

I wish I could rescue your memory.

I can almost hear you screaming with your eyes: See ME. Please, see ME.

I am here. I see you. And I know there’s still a you in there—a me in your memory, however faint. I remember for both of us now.

Thank you for holding my hand. Thank you for reminding ME that even when the memories fade, the love remains.

 

for Linda