Memories

A memory.

Right?

That's all we are.

Memories.

Just like picture you have of us, when we were just five and six. We went exploring in the woods in your backyard, and we found a piece of metal and thought it was gold. The picture shows me peering eagerly over your shoulder as you hold our "treasure." Remember that? Or do we just remember the picture?

Those are like fake memories. You remember the story of people telling you, you remember the pictures. But you don't remember it happening.

When we were eight and nine, we "ran away" to the library and read the comic books our mothers told us not to read. I colored on the inside of one of them, and laughed when you looked appalled. My mother found us, three hours later, asleep in one of the chairs. I was in such an amount of trouble I was positive I was going to die.

Remember that? You remember that. You still tease me about it.

When I had just turned thirteen, and you weren't quite fourteen yet, we had a "teenager" party, and ate too many cookies and far too much cake and then spent the next day home from school sick. We were the envy of the school for three days straight. Remember that? You have to remember that.

I remember when I was fifteen and you were sixteen, and you hugged me tight and told me that you remembered, you remembered all the same things I did, and that made us Shared Memories, like two people who've read the same book. Only it wasn't just some book, it was our story.

Our story. Remember when you told me that?

I'm seventeen now, and you're eighteen, and tonight you kissed me on the forehead and told me to be good and you'd see me later.  Then you sqeezed my hand, winked at me, let go, and left.

And now I'm sitting here, with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, staring out the window at my reflection.  I've got in my mind and in my fingers everything that keeps me smiling. And it's okay, because I'll make it, I've got something to smile about. You know.

You remember.

A memory.

Right?