Past
Maybe the pock-mark wasn’t on his left sideburn. Maybe it was on his nose.
But I’m almost positive it was from measles. Right? Measles?
How is it that things I obsessed over are now no more valid than fiction?
I once kept a draft post in my email account for over a year. It was to a boy, of course. I believe one I wanted more from and wasn’t getting it. I remember feeling so scared and free when I finally deleted it. But now I could not tell you a single word it contained. Or even who it was for with 100% certainty.
This weekend, I was contacted by the past. My very first real boyfriend from when I was in the 7th grade.
It was through a site set up for people to connect like that, although I’ve never had anyone do that.
He’s suggested we catch up. In offering direct email communication, he used the word “addy”.
I don’t remember him that way. I don’t remember him in words at all. I remember smells and touch. I remember light brown eyes. A jean jacket that I would rest my head on. His digital calculator watch that I wore that summer.
I used to be the kind of person who hung on to everyone and everything in my life. In that, I am tempted to catch up.
But I’m also scared. Not about the present, but about how direct contact would abscure the past. How much of what I remember is completely wrong? How many memories will get re-written?