Feb 3, 2015
I am about fifteen.
I've recently met a boy.
He has blonde hair.
We have gone out a few times.
He has come to my house.
We have modeled together. We have roller skated together.
One night, something happens. Some sort of argument.
I couldn't tell you what it's about.
But, as quickly as we began, we are over.
I am on my way home, it's night. A friend is dropping me off.
As we make the turn onto my street, the unexpected happens.
There, in my driveway, is his car.
The old white one with rust spots everywhere.
He's standing, leaning against the outside.
Peeking out from under that blonde hair.
We have a conversation and make amends. Something about him not wanting to lose me, how he felt the first time he saw me when we modeled.
But. Someone told me this. I only remember him. As in I remember who he was, his name, and what he looked like. I remember the way he looked, leaning against the car, waiting for me. Like something out of a movie. I think I remember kisses one night on a dance floor. And getting in trouble for it. But as for the rest of it, the details, I'm at a loss. I only know about this particular night because my grandparents told me. You see, right above the driveway was their bedroom. And they overheard it all. Two fickle teenagers breaking up and making up.
Not so long ago when my Grandma told me the story, her face lit up and she laughed throughout. She even quoted him. "When I saw you, I knew you were special." I'm sure both of my grandparents got a kick out of it. I'm sure the two of them fell asleep with smiles on their faces that night. I can picture it. I can still smell their bedroom. My beloved childhood home that has never stopped haunting my dreams.
I was struck by this the other day, out of nowhere. Struck with the thought that the two of them seemed to know this memory of mine better than I do. And now, there is only one. My Grandma. One day she too will be gone, and nobody will know this anymore. A witnessed memory. A story about me. The ones who could tell it best will no longer be.
How strange. They are the possessors of this tiny slice of my life. Maybe it seems so big because it's the only one I know of for certain. The only memory like this truly belonging to someone else. Something I should remember, but don't. Perhaps there are others. Other nights under the window. Other boys. More stolen moments. Maybe some take place outside the front door, next to my moms window.
What other snippets are out there, known better by another than by me?
And what happens if I don't remember?
And if they never tell me?
Two people know a memory of mine better than I do. And now, there is only one. My Grandma. One day she too will be gone, and nobody will know this anymore.
Thanks for reading,