Memories as milk-light, as dissolving sugar, right eye bruised.
Being young, I feel that my years are divided into halves where, in the first half, I become aware of something about life or myself and am left to understand/cope with it during the second half of the year. Everything grows and leaves so quickly right now, which is why this year, I have found myself longing for old times to the point of aching, and wishing to be my old self again, even if the moments I’m thinking of occurred only one or two years ago. There’s something of impossibility in every memory, a laugh. It seems impossible that any of these days could be behind me, but it also seems impossible that I could have ever believed those moments to have been the true present, the only time in existence.
I miss Boston in the summer, the way I was self-conscious but obsessed with the architecture, always plotting my revolution novel or reading Jane Eyre. I know now that I could never think that way again. I miss how my thoughts came from a single source, only built on the moment. I miss my little obsessions, discovering a song for the first time, a show, an actor. I miss the code names we had for that idiot boy whom I liked and our texts. They moved me up to the adult skiing class now, but I still remember when we climbed that snowy hill, out of breath but determined to ski down one last time before the mountain closed. That was the real me, I deserve to live closer to that day than the years that have come between it and me. A spiral of ache.
The worst is elementary school. Everything is soggy and melted now. Everything was sun-scabbed and drafty. Sticky fingertips, jump rope, hand games. Summer was chalky, yellow pulled over everything. It’s scary, having only known a person then, away from the fact of now. The conversations I forget like a dream I’m not allowed to return to. Voices cut from another universe, the faces we knew not existing anymore, our fears and tears no longer valid. Let’s just refuse to keep up with change and recognize each other as we were.
Not only do I want to live inside my old ideas again, I want to watch them play out like they did back then. I want the thunder-clap of new discovery, even if it came through pain. Like when I heard him in the back-seat of the van, laying on top or that girl, kissing her. New fault lines. Later, I sobbed in a hidden cranny in the hotel lobby, away from the other kids. After that, there was no more hope between that boy and I, but the world was new. I want to re-learn those tears, fit inside the hurt I outgrew. I miss not knowing the ending. I miss myself.