I alway write here, that I forget things. Because it’s true.
But, I’ve begun to remember things too.
I remember the girls that helped make me a woman. I remember the first time my mother taught me how to knead dough. I remember the first time I was behind the wheel of my dad’s 1970 Buick Electra. I remember the unforgettable moment when a girl from center city Reading corn rowed my hair. I remember getting my hair curled for my senior prom. I remember the moment I greeted a big burly southern man at the gates of my local airport. I remember the first time I woke up in the hospital. And the second. And the third. I remember standing at the top of the steps of the town house I grew up and feeling my throat close and my heart slow. I remember every singe time my mother told people that my allergies were life and death. I remember the first boy I though I loved. I remember breaking part of my foot when a horse stomped on it. I remember my mother didn’t believe it at first. I remember not spelling vegetable right in the spelling bee.
I remember the first time time someone told me they loved me first. I remember the first girl who kissed me. I remember the first time I got a C. I remember the first time I was alone and I panicked, living in a small apartment and I was cutting red peppers ad I sliced my finger from knuckle to tip. Red. Blood, spilling, rushing like water from a dam down the blade, onto the peppers and the cutting board. I remember using plumbers tape and a clean napkin to bandage it
I remember my first concert, and my second. I remember when I was 11 and I was taller than everyone else in my class. I remember the first time I wore high high heels out to my local bar. I remember everyone telling me who I was before I even knew.
I remember the first time I won at pool, when I really actually tried. I remember the first time I fired a handgun. I remember my first shots of Wild Turkey, and especially why I don’t drink it now.
I remember signing up for tumblr. I remember sending in my college applications. I remember chopping off my hair. I remember dying my hair black, the one and only time. I remember the times I used to drunkenly call him, and he would always answer.
I remember a lot. Too much sometimes.
I remember the moment I told someone I loved them and they didn’t love me back. I remember the song that was playing my junior year of high school when my sister wrecked my mom’s station wagon and we had to climb out the sunroof. I remember the moment I broke up with my blogger boyfriend from Chicago and I cried and cried on the phone, and off. I remember when I was 8 and I used to sing Sheryl Crowe before i knew what the lyrics meant. I remember seeing my grandfather before he passed away. I remember the tornado that swept through our town when I was 6. I remember my 24th birthday, and how sad it is to realize you outgrow people.
I remember when my mother’s mother had a stroke and slowly, the woman I had admired began to fade. replaced by… someone entirely different. I remember me standing in the recovery room after her surgery when she told me that I should never get married, nor love a man.
I remember every moment my dad told me that my mother was gorgeous, and how lucky he is to have us all. I remember waving at his plane as a kid after mom dropped him off at the airport so he could go support us.
I regret that I’m not a good journal writer, instead, I bottle things up and let them part from me in waves. I regret and forget that my mind is faster than my fingers on a keyboard. I remember that I love writing on the first page of a new notebook.
I forget what my mattress feels like after 12 days away, on hotel beds, floors, and chairs.
I forget some things, but I definitely remember some of the fantastic things that make me, well… me.