(no subject)
January 18 writing
"Athens lives in the shadow of what it cannot remember, of what it could never be again." - Everything Beautiful Began After
Sometimes I worry that you forget.
No, usually I worry that you forget. Because after all, if you forget, what good am I?
I recall that we once sat under the shade of a tree in the courtyard, eating our lunch and discussing the English reading. We always struggled with that. Or, at least, I did, and you pretended to just so you could guide me a little bit as we talked about character, motive, and imagery, things that I never really understood because no one bothered to teach me as carefully as you. You walked me through math problems too, never condescendingly showing me the answer and how you would go about solving it, instead nudging me one way and the other until I meandered into the solution myself.
It made things seem a lot less painful that way, that you didn't have to think about your next hospital appointment or the next thing they would tell you happened in your body that they could not fix. And I didn't either, which made life so much simpler and clear, and we could trade stories like there would be a next summer, a next winter, college and jobs and beyond.
You were always in my future. Was I ever in yours?
I hoped so. Even if you didn't, I hoped, always, that you would think past just another day of waking up breathless and aching with the force of getting up, another hour trapped in a hospital bed with nurses buzzing about you, asking how you felt, another minute of hearing the heart monitor beep and beep and beep, a reminder that you were still there. I hoped you would put your future within your own hands, and not believe that this is all there is to it, and that when you thought of what was next, you would think of me.
It's okay if I wasn't. There's no way for me to know, anyway.
The problem with having loved you is that now I can't remember what not loving you is like. And you can't say if you ever loved me or not.
I think with every minute you forget more and more, because there aren't new memories to replace the ones you've lost. All there is is my hand on yours, waiting for you to open your eyes so you don't keep forgetting, so that you know I've changed a little and you've lost a lot of weight and I just want you to remember me when you wake up.
You will wake up, right?
Right?
Ri--
"Athens lives in the shadow of what it cannot remember, of what it could never be again." - Everything Beautiful Began After
Sometimes I worry that you forget.
No, usually I worry that you forget. Because after all, if you forget, what good am I?
I recall that we once sat under the shade of a tree in the courtyard, eating our lunch and discussing the English reading. We always struggled with that. Or, at least, I did, and you pretended to just so you could guide me a little bit as we talked about character, motive, and imagery, things that I never really understood because no one bothered to teach me as carefully as you. You walked me through math problems too, never condescendingly showing me the answer and how you would go about solving it, instead nudging me one way and the other until I meandered into the solution myself.
It made things seem a lot less painful that way, that you didn't have to think about your next hospital appointment or the next thing they would tell you happened in your body that they could not fix. And I didn't either, which made life so much simpler and clear, and we could trade stories like there would be a next summer, a next winter, college and jobs and beyond.
You were always in my future. Was I ever in yours?
I hoped so. Even if you didn't, I hoped, always, that you would think past just another day of waking up breathless and aching with the force of getting up, another hour trapped in a hospital bed with nurses buzzing about you, asking how you felt, another minute of hearing the heart monitor beep and beep and beep, a reminder that you were still there. I hoped you would put your future within your own hands, and not believe that this is all there is to it, and that when you thought of what was next, you would think of me.
It's okay if I wasn't. There's no way for me to know, anyway.
The problem with having loved you is that now I can't remember what not loving you is like. And you can't say if you ever loved me or not.
I think with every minute you forget more and more, because there aren't new memories to replace the ones you've lost. All there is is my hand on yours, waiting for you to open your eyes so you don't keep forgetting, so that you know I've changed a little and you've lost a lot of weight and I just want you to remember me when you wake up.
You will wake up, right?
Right?
Ri--