Pressed against glass, face down, born again in the cloud. Another memory retained for…what?
“Marianne loves Bobby. 12th Grade. 17 Years old.”
That lasted nine months before ending in bruises, abortion, and divorce. Yet, the photos remain, reminders of erstwhile lovers and friends, a past suffused in shade. Sadness the emotion as album pages flutter by, the memories that began in happiness later viewed from the bottom of the bottle, the worm eating away at her insides. Alcoholic binges interrupted by short periods of frantic cleaning, crying, obsessive arranging, freakish smiles of false hope. Depression.
Photos should be sorted by categories of Happy and Sad. The sad pile thick, heavy, least looked into, covered in a patina of fresh blood. The happy pile tear-stained, hope-filled, covered in a patina of drunken vomit.
Why do we want to remember the past? Cavemen started the trend, Italian Masters renewed it, Polaroid made it easy.
Etch-etch, brush-brush, snap-snap. Voila! You’ll live forever.
She died naked, face-up, a pain patch over her heart. A broken heart. A broken heart that didn’t need the pain patch to kill her.
I don’t want to look at her photo because I don’t want to see her pain. I want to remember her before the pain began, when we were little, her genuine smile when she fell in love, when I taunted her with “Marianne loves Bobby, Marianne loves Bobby.”
She called me Honey because she thought I was the only one who loved her.