He can’t remember; she cannot forget.
It has been like this since always, since the very beginning, since before this story. The doctors told him—blonde, blue-eyed— about the memory challenges a decade ago, at 55, and a week later he forgot about it. Now he claims he is fit, fine, perfect— there is nothing she has to worry about. The doctors never told her—crimson eyes and raven hair— anything, because she was adamant that she remembered already having visited them lifetimes ago. She claims that there is in fact something wrong with her— why does she remember? Sometimes, she does not want to. He keeps telling her there is nothing wrong with her, and she keeps telling him that something is wrong with him. But he cannot remember what is wrong with him, and she cannot forget that everything is supposed to be fine within her.
They live together, dine together, and breathe together. He once knew about the mole on her back, and the memory of scar childhood stitches left on his ankle is ingrained in her. On Sundays, she wears pink because she remembers that last Sunday she wore pink. On Sundays, he always forgets his medicines and always forgets that she wore pink the last weekend. Once a week, they go down to the lake to eat sandwiches and talk about their week. Every week she tells him to be ready at 5 pm sharp on Tuesdays, but why doesn’t she understand that he cannot remember? It is not his fault he forgets, gets late, and ruins the sunset she wanted to see. He makes sure to make it up to her though, plucking flowers from nearby plants and giving them to her with a bow. Every day for 10 years he has done this thinking it is a new idea every time he does it, and it never matters to her how she remembers every flower. She will collect every last one of them as long as he gives them to her.
She wishes she could speak to him about everything that remains edged in her memory: how her parents looked the night they crashed their cars, the pity on the lawyer’s face who asked them to settle for pennies on the dollar, the joy in his mother’s eyes when she first laid eyes on her sister, the sobs they cried when the sister passed away two years ago, the crease in his smile when he talks about their children. Sometimes, at odd and even hours of the night, the memories hit her like cruel bricks smashing into an unlucky car and then she remembers that there was a car but it was not hers, it had a woman that had her eyes and a man that had her nose and that they left long ago. At times like that, she wants to shake him awake beside her, but she knows he will not remember, so she wipes her damp eyes and goes back to sleep on her own.
He wishes he could speak to her about the confusion that engulfs his entire life: how he does not remember to drink the coffee he makes or his son’s birthday, how he does not know why he picked up the pen or why his wife was crying beside him at odd and even hours of the night, how he has trouble putting pieces together and trouble telling her when she looks beautiful because sometimes, he just forgets. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that when she asks him whether or not his favourite dish that she makes tastes the same after 43 years, he has no words because he doesn’t remember that this was his favourite dish, or that he liked how she made it or that he has been eating it for 43 years. So he smiles and hopes it’s enough. When she smiles back, he knows it isn’t. He wants to reach out to her and tell her that he’s right here, that everything is okay but the thought slips away from him as he raises his hand, and all he can do two minutes later is put it down beside him.
They met when he used to remember and she used to forget. In a dilapidated cafe across the street from Radcliffe College, when the hushed streets were overtaken by the warm glow of the afternoon sun, they both found themselves together, even though neither of them was supposed to be. He wanted to eat lunch after an
exam but the mess was closed, the money was properly over and the roommates were missing so the only option was the sad cafe down the street that would give him food he could afford. She was going to her parent’s house, but the phone fell and broke, no taxi was available and the only thing visible in front of her was a cafe where someone would have a phone. It was when he remembered that he had left his wallet in the room and she forgot that wildly waving her hands around could potentially wreak havoc that she hit him in the face as he was trying
to exit the coffee-smelling cafe. He fell backwards and she screamed. Two minutes passed before they saw each other. The last two minutes of their lives that they would ever let pass without seeing each other.
Sitting in front of a black mahogany-wood coffin now, he cannot, for the life in him, remember why he is here today. He does not know why he has been dressed up in a black suit. But, he remembers her. He remembers her when he sees her peacefully sleeping. He remembers her scent of Marigold and the glow in her eyes. He remembers how her hand felt in his. He remembers falling backwards in a cafe and looking up to find his whole life altered. He remembers sunsets and bouquets and two little children running around. He remembers spending hours in the kitchen with her. He remembers her.
She is wearing pink because it is a Sunday. A scrawny boy walks up to him, whispering in his ears, “Do you remember her, grandpa?”. He does not, not anymore. But, he has not forgotten either. “She has a black mole on her back,” he whispers back. A moment later, his thoughts and her scent will run away from him. He will be lost again. But for now, someone, somewhere, is brewing a coffee. For now, he closes his eyes and thinks about the raven-haired girl with a mole on her back.
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