Especially in early grief, we replay events and memories in our minds, desperate to hold onto them. We have lost so much. We are terrified to lose what little we have left: the things we remember, the inner pictures of our life before.
“Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever," he said.
"You might want to think about that."
"You forget some things, don't you?"
"Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road
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I already have lists of the things I want to remember. I keep one on my computer and one on my phone. I added a memory to my phone list yesterday. I went to brunch with an old friend and one time significant other. The conversation stalled, so I listened to the couple next to us talking about the new park up the street and the sound of our silverware on the plate. Wondering how Sean and I always had so much to say to each other. Then, I noticed. My companion was looking at my right hand, and I checked to see if there was food on it. And it flashed. Sean was sweetly astonished at how I consistently got food on my right ring finger, always in the same exact spot. I honestly couldn't explain it either. And that flooded into all the times he would catch me before I'd put my sleeve in the food I'd spilled on the table. Or shake his head at the egg yolk in my hair. I'm a famously messy eater. It would probably annoy most people. But Sean found it endearing.
So. I added it to the list.
It is a list to hold tight to. The things I want in my head forever.
But. There is another list I wish I could make. A list I would make and burn with black magic. Turn it to ash and blow it into the wind so that those things that got put into my head could disappear with him.
This list would include the naked picture of his ex-wife that I found after he died. It would also include the.
I can't. I've been working on this prompt for hours. I already have lists of the things I want to remember. I can't make a list of the things I want to forget. I was excited about this prompt. The Road was Sean's favorite book. A story of boundless love in desperate times. But I can't do this. I already know all the things I want put out of my head, a laundry list of could have, should have, would have. I could pretend that this is a list of what came after, but the truth is it's a list of so many moments. before. There is so much of this that I want gone. I want it out of me. That list runs like the credits at the end of a movie in my mind, on fucking repeat. I can't talk about that list like I can't talk about the thing that happened that night in college or when my sister's dog died. When someone you love kills them self, you have a very scary list of the things that you can't get out of your head.
My therapist tells me to think of it like this: When I met Sean, he was sick. He was terminal. And his disease took him. And I want to believe her. I do. But. I don't. So there. I wish he'd never met me. I wish he'd met a nice girl who had never had a threesome or dated a guy who went to jail. Who'd never been thrown down a stair case or done drugs in the woods.
It's too much to think about. All the things I can't forget. I know they're there. I just can't talk about it. At least not today.
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