My inbox blinked 1 new mail. Titled an insipid “Re: Hi”, it was a long ramble interspersed with “Oh god, what nonsense I’m talking” and abruptly ending with “You can make sense of most of my rubbish.” Yes, I can. Cliched as it is, that’s what friends are for. This letter is all that.
She remarked that she was thinking of one time we had a fight and didn’t speak to each other for a long time, till Easter. She said she couldn’t recollect what we fought about and wondered if she was a coward for auto-erasing unpleasant memories. And she asked if I remembered. Yes, I do. Cliched again, but good or bad, I don’t forget.
It is as clear as yesterday’s ride home. I can even track back to the dates. And the words. And the emotions. And the decision to turn my face away. And then to turn back to her again. But I didn’t tell her. I told her not to make a vice out of virtue and to continue letting go of unpleasant memories. She has a gift I don’t.
But she did remember that something happened. And that it was without me. And that it was unpleasant. That’s the only reason I didn’t feel the need to remind her of any more.