For the Memory Keepers
I remember you laughing.
And I was laughing.
We ruined the dough, but in its ruin, we found laughter. As we tossed our heads back, chocolate chips clung to our fingers. Dough, sticky and firm, webbed our hands.
Did we add too much flour?
Did we forget the eggs?
I stood on a chair, matching your height, laughing and looking out the window panes at the wide lawn.
Over and over, I catalogue the details, wringing my senses for the moment long gone. Memories are written and re-written. Their truth doesn’t bring comfort. Their presence does.
What happens when your memories are snatched up?
Lost to disease, they fall away, but who keeps them? Who tends to their details? Who recalls the weight of the dough or the feeling of the chair underfoot?
The disease doesn’t care.
It doesn’t bother with feelings or considerations.
It doesn’t arrange for your memories to be filed away neatly, preserved comfortably and safely.
It mocks and questions those you once loved, now your record keepers. Those sticky, cookie dough-clad fingers taunt, “She doesn’t remember.”
Clinging to the memory, I whisper,
“But I do.”
Who will remember for me one day?
Bridget Gryna is an amateur writer, runner, cyclist and constant work in progress based in Chicago. To learn more about her life, pop over to @bridgetgryna on Instagram.