It’s strange to get sentimental over the garbage, but tonight as I was emptying the trash cans to put in the wheelie bin so I could wheel it to the curb, I realized that with every trash night, every load of laundry, every night’s sleep, I was losing Steve. I’m getting rid of the evidence of his life. I’m forgetting.
Most people remember events and people. I remember data. I remember what I read when I was twelve and forget who I kissed, no matter that I’d rather it be the other way around.
I forget who I was before I got married. I’ll forget who I was while I was married. And I’ll eventually forget Steve, too. It will become something vague, like a movie watched while half-awake.
Time doesn’t heal wounds. Time just steals memories away. It hollows out my head like a pumpkin. Carve out a smile. A flickering candle might make someone think there’s life in there.
I don’t know if it’s true that any societies thought cameras could steal their souls. I’m surrounded by pictures of Steve. He’s on the wall. He’s on the fridge. They’re just pictures. He knew he was going to die. He thought about it. I’m sure he was thinking it in some of those pictures. I’m sure in some of them he was thinking he loved me, or that he was hungry, or that the sun was in his eyes. But if I ever knew, I’ve forgotten, and I can’t turn to him and say, “Where was this? When was this? Who took this picture?”
I can’t turn and say, “Remind me who you are. I need to remember you.”
It’s not fair to lose the only thing I have left of him. It’s not fair.