forget you ·
3 August 06

I’ve been told you’re back. From where I don’t know, but I assume I know, because last we met, you had forgotten me. I may have the memory of a goldfish, but some things I can’t forget. Did I love you as a child? Did you love me back? As I recall, the answer was no. I remember how you left, and I remember also how I felt on your departure. We were only children, but I felt a bond that still resonates with me today somewhere, deep inside.

Truth be told, it makes me laugh, but I don’t remember how we met. Oh, I remember that our mother’s were friends, and through them you and I became friends too, more than friends though? It may have been for me, but more of that later. We used to play games together; I remember this too – board games, puzzles, with paint, with crayons and other colourings. We made shapes, we made patterns, we did origami and we had fun learning to do the things that children do, together, as friends through our bond.

It’s strange, you know, I don’t think I had a meaningless friendship with you. Perhaps I’m over sensitive, perhaps I’m nostalgic, perhaps any of these things, and yet as a child, I had never formed such a friendship, such a love for a person as I had for you. Yes, it was love of a kind, because when I was with you, I could forget how my mother treated me at home, and how exemplary her manner was in front of strangers. It’s true; you were partial safety for me. If I was with you, I couldn’t be harmed, and for those few hours we spent together I know you felt the same about our private world. A world filled with colour, filled with happiness, and laughter. We didn’t need labels in our friendship; it would evolve naturally and gradually without interruption. Or so we thought. So I thought.

My heart broke when I knew you were leaving. I remember the day vaguely, because as usual we came to visit as we had done any other day. It was a long trek up the hill, a bus ride, a nice respectable area. I remember your house, how huge it was to me, how your father had abandoned everything and gone in similar circumstances to mine, but the difference was you came off better than I. I wasn’t envious, just in awe at the size of the occupancy.

The door opened up to a room straight ahead, which followed through led to your large, open kitchen. From the door, to the right was the staircase with its fence like banister, I remember how you would peek through the gap to see who it was. To the left of the door was another room than ran on and on like bus, but it was rarely used. Climbing up the stairs led to the bedrooms, and the bathroom. If I remember correctly, you washed my hair more than once, when we pretended you were going to cut my hair as if at a barber’s. You had your pink hairdryer, with its Leia-like Danish pastry exhaust.

You told me you were leaving, you almost cried. I did cry. My best friend was leaving, and I didn’t know why. Weren’t you happy here? Weren’t we friends? Did I do something wrong, upset you or your mother in any way? You told me so calmly, and yet you almost cried. I wanted a kiss, just a kiss. I was a child, and so were you, but I knew if two people loved each other, they kissed on the lips. I wanted to know if you felt the same way, but you kept refusing. We stopped talking, and when you left, we went our separate ways, ending our friendship effectively there and then. I was petulant, and not for the first time.

Then by sheer coincidence, I was told you were there too. I couldn’t stand the heat there, and I hadn’t forgotten you. I wanted to see you too, and tell you how sorry I was, may be we could pick up where we left off. We were young, and yes we were children, but may be we could be adult about things.

I saw you, and your hair had changed. It was now tied back, instead of hanging down from the front. Your whole demeanour had changed. You barely made eye contact with me, and when I tried to approach you ran away. I waited outside the bathroom to talk to you, but you didn’t say a word to me, and ran to your mother, hiding behind her, like I was out to hurt you. But it wasn’t that you were scared of what I might do, was it? You had forgotten me. Even when your mother told you who I was, you couldn’t remember me. Or may be you did remember, and this was punishment for my actions. How could someone so young learn to exact vengeance? It wasn’t right.

You left without saying a word. You didn’t even speak to my mother, but I did to yours. I greeted and met, and sat down and talked, even though the person I really wanted to talk to was you. You didn’t even look my way. Twice I was left with wondering what had gone wrong, this time without having done a thing wrong. Why did you forget me? Why didn’t I forget you? What right had you to occupy my mind, my thoughts, and my memory when you refuse to remember me?

So now I hear you’re back from there. You must be my age now; we were about the same age, weren’t we? I think we were. You might have been older. I might have been younger, or I may have things reversed. I wonder how you look now, I still remember how you looked when you were a child, how you looked when I saw you there, and can imagine how you look now; the same, but older. You’ve been so honed to be obedient and quiet, I can’t imagine that you’re any wild species, but instead a sullen mouse scuttling across the floor without looking where you’re going.

I don’t love you anymore, and when I hear your name I think, “Whatever, it’s only her”. You’ll NEVER read this, I know this, but I can pretend that you will. I can pretend that you’re reading this now, and understand how you broke a boy’s heart twice, even though we were children. How I resented your denial of my existence, when I clearly acknowledged yours. I don’t resent you now, I feel nothing for you. Not one iota. So when I hear your name, again I remind you that I think nothing of it. You’re still a memory, but you are a memory and nothing more. Strange, but I couldn’t let it go until this moment.