I wonder what memories smell like. I wonder how they compare to the real thing.
I find myself clinging to her image, frozen in snapshots lined perfectly on walls we painted not so long ago. They are bland, caricatures of life. These aren’t real. This isn’t sufficient. I look inside myself instead, and when I close my eyes I can imagine the echoes of her voice in these very halls. But this is diluted by memory. I can reach out and imagine the feel of her, but this isn't real. This is a recreation, a farce, a pretense constructed by imagination, hopes, and longing.
Her smell is no memory. There it is, lingering ever so delicately on her vanity. And there, a touch more on her side of the bed, a mess untouched for a little over a week now. Vanilla and a hint of something hers.
I am afraid. One week and I struggle to remember her touch and the sound of her voice. I struggle to truthfully remember, because her reality is evaporating. Another week, another day, or another hour--I don't know--and I lose all of her, dissolved somewhere into the air of this house, dissolved into memories that will never be sufficient.
My breath is shallower here, as if every molecule I inhale is from a dwindling handful. Perhaps these next two breaths will be my last.
This is me shutting the door, gently so as not to perturb those precious atoms, but tightly so that none slip away. This is me moving back into the hallway, visiting her images for solace.
Or so I hope. These are images. Simple images. Reality is filled with vibrancy and spirit, but these are painfully static, distorting her with a paper actor’s interpretation of someone I love. The videos are a door away but they are worse—dulled versions of her voice, digitized, demanding validation by touch and...
Smell. I reach for that door again, something in me aching. I am afraid because when this is gone my memory won't be enough. I am afraid because when that is gone, corrupted and perverted into a blurry dream, I will lose you forever.
I rush in and breathe in a memory. It snaps me into a waking reverie: an image of a park, vivid and shining under an autumn sun; the scent of dried leaves and a familiar vanilla. There is the feel of your caress, slight but emphatic as we hold hands. These are your fingers and palms and the lines that we read for fun. This is the soft of your skin. My arm is around your shoulder now, and I know you. A breeze, and your hair waves beautifully.
The reverie ends as quickly as it began. I hunger for so much more. Another breath for another infallible memory. I breathe...
An image begins to coalesce: a scene of blues and greens blurred by a persistent orange from a setting sun. As your outline comes into view the scene collapses. I collapse. The return is whiplash. Fear and shock. And pain. I struggle to breathe again.
Nothing. I ignore restraint and rationality and bury myself in your resting place, desperate for that last molecule, hidden under the covers or beneath the untouched pillow. What's there isn't enough. A pittance. A waft of nothing. The breaths are haggard now but I breathe again.
A remembrance comes but you're not there. Just your image, the scent of a hospital, and the feel of tears.
something bothers me about this title. i reserve the right to ninja-edit. may also be posting this premature, but overcooking is bad. like undercooking. bla bla bla bla. may make many edits.
and what is with this memory thing i keep writing about. mindbug. yeah.
