Memories are twisted. They’re worse than play-doh. Let’s just say I had a friend, and we spent many years together, and many of my memories are tangled up with this person, and I would only assume, I would have to assume, that her memories would be the same. Or similar. Or at least have mention of me, somewhere.
I unwittingly discovered this person’s blog, on which was her life story. In it, I did not exist. The years I spent at her house were described as solitary years in which this person was a “loner” as if she had no friends at all. All those years, constantly sleeping over this person’s house so as which to escape my own, being together during school, and after-school, and on weekends, and during holidays and beach vacations and parties and every possible element of my childhood I can think of: gone. Did her memory erase me? Am I that easily forgettable? Or was I not what she needed at the time, and I had no idea until now?
As a fiction writer, I often rewrite my memories. Literally. If a story of mine is somehow loosely related to my real life it has a way of becoming more real than the supposed real life, the memories competing with what is on the page, and the page always wins. So I can’t complain that I’ve been written out of hers. It just makes me question myself and what happened. My memory is getting flimsy.
This must be why people get tattoos. (Besides the fact that they look sexy. Yeah, e, and by that I mean you.)