Retaining Walls

“Hey, do you remember that guy we ran into when we were downtown a few weeks ago? He was tall, with dark ey-”

“Scott?”

“Uh, yeah. How did you remember that?”

Shrug.

I have always considered myself as someone with an above average memory. Sure, as I get closer to my 30s, and have to memorize industry-specific acronyms, website passwords, and friend’s birthdays, I am not as sharp as I used to be. But for the most part, I have the uncanny ability to hold on to faces, names, events, and places easily.

My friend L doesn’t remember anything. She spent most of our high school graduation leaned over, asking me to identify three-quarters of our graduating class, most of whom she had known since pre-pubescence. She forgets to put her car in park before turning it off. At no time can she name the title, or any starring actors of a movie she saw within the week. And she doesn’t care. She laughs off her ineptitude at memorizing names. She gives rap songs ridiculously inappropriate titles because she thinks it’s funny that she doesn’t know the real titles. She spends a good deal of her driving time getting lost. But she never skips a beat.

Then there’s me. I hold on to everything. Every detail. Every forehead crease, wrinkled skirt, handsome face, or peculiar odor. I fast forward and rewind, like a little mini-film that plays on repeat in my brain. The outfit my last manager wore on the day of my job interview five years ago? Got it. The cost of my dance costumes for my competition recital in 8th grade? Don’t even have to check the receipt. The painted-walls smell of the hallway in my freshman dorm corridor where I stood the moment I laid eyes on my first love? Yes, indeed.

And usually, this memory of mine is a great tool. My mom calls me after her church service to tell me about a childhood friend’s parent that she ran into. I can always recite their names so my mom won’t be embarrassed during her next encounter. I can remember where the car was parked, right down to the crack in the pavement next to the left rear wheel. My high school speech teacher would be proud to know that I still can recite the poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Well, most of it anyway.

But sometimes, and what is becoming more than some times, I don’t want to remember. The way the wind was knocked out of me when I found out a rather crushing secret kept by a close friend? You can keep it. Hearing two grown women, who had purported to my be my friend only weeks before, say vile, sophomoric, and completely unoriginal things about me? Please burn the original and any copies.

It’s sort of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. There is no way to erase bad memories, or chunks of memory, for convenience sake. Sure, a blow to the head might do some good, but that has potential of putting my motor-skills at risk. And the real catch when it comes to having an impeccable memory is that for all the fantastic, sunny skied, blue watered, sand-between-my-toes kinds of flashbacks, there are always a few spoilers.

So what then? Is there some sort of guide to pushing away everything bad that keeps me up at night? Isn’t repressing bad stuff just exacerbating the issue? Or is the solution to hold on to the good stuff nice and tight, but keep the bad stuff at bay? Not so much that it disappears, but just so that it’s not showing every half-hour on all screens within my brain? Maybe it’s better to address the big stuff, even if it drags on and closure seems just beyond the fingertips. Maybe being haunted by something so crisp, clear, and painfully present is a sign that I have yet to truly confront this stuff.

Because ultimately, I refuse to just start forgetting. Unlike my friend, I am not content to not remember. I like cataloging new faces. I enjoy the feeling I get when I smell that combination of sea salt, hot dogs, and freshly mowed grass. I like tracing my fingers along the skin of the person I love, and knowing there will be no surprises. I like to remember.