The older I get, the deeper I fall in awe of memory. Why, as I walk to grab oranges at the market, do I think of my grandma singing ‘Knock Three Times’? On a run, I remember a boy who did coke and then kissed me, remarking with delighted eyes that my lips tasted like coke. I chuckle, and I marvel at having met him only once, years ago. Is it strange to remember this silly intimacy? What, if anything, does he remember of me?
I hoard stories. I relive them with every re-telling, examining the edges and finding new meaning. I play the same video games over and over, immersing in those worlds. Songs attach themselves to chapters of my life. I healed from my first breakup listening to Blank Space on YouTube over and over, running circles around Worthen Arena in Muncie, Indiana, the parking lot stale with snow.
An old lover told me I was the biggest devotee to lore he’d ever met. I remember feeling suddenly naked. He was right. I delight in the lore of everything. I am, in ways, always crafting my own.
What will I think of these days, once they’re gone? Who will I ache to see again? What stories will I tell, over and over, and who will populate them?
michael king 