memories

She opened her eyes. She still couldn't remember. It all looked familiar. As if she had dreamt of it in another dream that she couldn't remember. The small carvings in the molding of the plaster ceiling. The paint peeling back from the left corner where the leak from the bathroom above proved too much to handle. Even the small oval photograph that sat, dusty, on the dresser reminded her of what she could not remember.

The birds chirping outside the partially open window seemed to say, “I'm here. I'm here.” As if they knew that her memories were there even if she could not access them.

She closed her eyes.

She opened them again to look at the man sleeping next to her. What was his name? He had reminded her again yesterday. Tony. Yes. That was it. Tony. Or was it Adam? It was Tony.

Tony. Their pictures hung everywhere in this house. The photo of them at Disney World. Her hugging Arielle – who was her favorite Disney Character. She could tell you Arielle's life story, but not her own. The photos of their wedding. Them – outside – her leaning against a tree and him leaning over her just kissing her ear. The whole family standing in front of a beautiful Church. She didn't even know where that Church was located, much less what it was called. Tony had kindly pointed out her mother, her brother and then his father and mother and brothers and sisters. He had gently gone through all the aunts, uncles, grandparents and other various relatives on both sides. She knew she'd never remember them all. Yet they are her family. Are they family if you don't know they're family?

She had asked about her Dad.

“Where's my Dad?

“Oh, God.”

“What?”

“He died.”

“What? When? How? What?”

“You were 23. He was 61. It was a car accident.”

“I don't care. I mean, I do, but right now I feel like you're telling me that the Prime Minister of India died when I was 23. I don't remember him. Oh God – will I ever remember him? What if I never remember my father? What if my memories never come back? What will we do?”

She had said that phrase so many times in the past three days. “What will we do?” Somehow, this man, Tony, was still answering all her questions. He must truly love her.

She had spent most of these past days willing herself to remember. It was like trying to remember a dream. The more you try the less you remember. Every time she thought she remembered something she'd ask Tony.

“Is my brother named Joe?”

“No. He's Mick.”

“Oh, right. Mick. Who's Joe?”

“We don't know anybody named Joe, except the old priest at Church.”

She closed her eyes.

She opened her eyes. She still couldn't remember.