It’s funny, the things you remember. A long time ago, I was at the movies with my friend, we’d go every Friday night. We were hanging after the movie, waiting for his dad to pick us up. I think I was about 17.
All of a sudden, I saw you standing there with your friends, I was intimidated because I didn’t know them and maybe knowing me would embarrass you, we didn’t run in the same circles. I called your name and you kind of laughed hard, like you weren’t sure of who I was. I remember you said something like “Oh hey man, it’s you” or something.
I realize you were totally gone and it was weird to me because I always saw you when you were straight and I didn’t know how to respond and I realized you weren’t going to remember me talking to you so I quickly went back to my friend.
Not sure why this memory came up. It was 20 years ago and irrelevant but as I write, I find this memories popping back up and I must make sense of them. The curse of being a writer, I guess. Why do memories and the past matter so much to me? And why can’t I look back without feeling the pains of sadness and a lump in my throat. And why do I remember things that other people have long forgotten? It’s a mystery to me, I’ll never understand.