Memory

Mine is not a story, but I do have some stories to tell.

I rank fond memories by how slow they feel when I try to drift back. Is there a small moment that can help me remember the whole?

I remember sitting on top of one of the Atlas Mountains by a fire. I’ve never seen so many stars. I remember corn smoldering on coals that burned on the Casablanca sidewalk. I remember an egg vendor who ran his little illegal business out of the back of a gray van. Customers would keep an eye out for the police. I remember choosing to give my two silver coins of change to the same beggar in a row twenty. It wasn’t really a choice.

I remember the English Lake District because of the boggy heath. The mist closed in as we reached the rocky top. I asked someone how close we were and they turned to point at the peak, only a few yards away, but it was already invisible.

I remember the ducks moving over the reflected moon in Lake Michigan. The cars passed along Lake Shore Drive, and I sat and talked.

I remember waking up early after barely sleeping. There was breakfast and calmer conversation, less feverish than the night before, when urgency was only apparent in the speed we moved from one topic to another.

I remember standing on a rooftop and watching a parade.

I remember being too exhausted to pose for a picture after biking a hundred miles. We ate all the pizza.

There are characters missing from all of these memories that I haven’t named because I know them. You were there. I know your name.

I’m trying to remember the stories, but all I can remember is your face, my father, mother, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin, niece, nephew, neighbor, roommate, and trusted friend. I remember you, my friend.