A Memory

Being cold.
With each step, the crunching compounding of snow.
It’s late and it’s alone.
You can feel through heavy boots your weight crushing the snow.
You can feel your weight bringing you closer to the ground.
The glow of a cigarette fire; glowing because of the wind.
Such an unprepared moment.
I suddenly realize my obsession with memory.
My fear of forgetting.
I have so many memories fading.

Indiana, when I was a boy, probably six years old, there were twins I knew. Maybe I only knew them for a day. I can’t remember.
I didn’t understand twins. I had no one to explain it to me.
It was an afternoon. He had a soda can.
One of them did.
And said, “I can drink this entire can without stopping.”
I didn’t believe him. I don’t remember if I told him that.
He showed me anyways.
He did it. And burped.
I didn’t understand burping. I had no one explain it to me.
They had bikes and wanted to ride somewhere.
I followed.
It was getting dark.
They rode fast. I had to keep up.
I know I followed them, but I can only remember being alone.
I rode and rode, until I reached a house.
I was far from home.
No one explained I shouldn’t be so far from home.
There was a house. Dark but warm.
I don’t remember any faces, but I know I wasn’t alone.
I don’t remember what happened afterwards.
I think my parents eventually found me. I think they were angry.
I don’t remember any other day with those twins.
I don’t even know if they were real.
I don’t know why I remembered this in the cold tonight.
It has stayed with me for seventeen years, but I’m very afraid I’ll forget this one day.
There is no one to talk about it with.
No one to share this memory with. It only exists because I remember it. It won’t exist anymore when I forget it.
I wrote it down because I’m afraid it won’t exist someday.
I’m afraid so much of my life won’t exist anymore as I start to forget. I don’t know why I feel it’s important.
But
it is.
So much of what is happening, what has happened in this world exists because someone remembers it.
So much of what has happened, what is happening in this world won't exist, because somebody will have forgotten it.