All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Not Yet Forgotten
People leave us. We can’t do anything to stop them. We can’t force their golden heart to keep beating or their gentle hands to keep holding yours. We can’t force them to stay forever. Can’t force them to love you till the end of time. We can’t force them to do anything. But as the time begins to pass and their heart beats start to fade, and as their hands slowly begin to slip from yours. They leave you, and your mind starts to forget.
I can still remember that loving voice of his, those tight bear hugs that would squeeze me and swallow me whole. I remember those hard working hands that never seemed to sit still. I remember those long summer evenings sitting in his lap sharing his chocolate Neccos.
I can still remember the slight fishy smell that had always seemed to linger around the cottage waters; it’s still pungent in my mind. I remember those long, warm, summer evenings raking the beach with my grandmother in hopes to find a cool shell or two. I remember the beating midsummer sun that would shine onto the sand that would squish between our toes.
I remember when he would take my hands in his, my soft young skin feeling every callus from all those years of woodworking. He would embrace them as he would mine, and we would casually stroll along the beach, icy water lapping against our bare toes. I remember every few feet, he bending down to pick up a few scattered stone here and there. He would hand them to me; I would smirk, loving the feeling of each stone. Everyone he had picked up had been turned smooth, changed over time by the constant waves that had rushed against them for thousands of year, each giving them a unique and wonderful feel.
I remember taking all those rocks and making that bird house.
I remember sitting on that hard stone hedge for so long, my butt hurting, my back screaming in protest, but I would stand still, watching, never moving. I would watch as he would gingerly place a small slate of wet cement on that small wooden fixture. Layer after layer of thick grey goop he would lay upon that wooden frame. As he finished he would turn to me, smile, and then go back to laying the cement on it, until finally he was finished.
“Grab a stone.” He would instruct.
I would grab one, usually a small, soft, rounded one. He would take my hands, I clenching the stone, and then together we place the stone into the damp, sticky cement. Each time, stone after stone, I would gasp in surprise at that foreign feeling. The cold, icy, outlandish feeling of the cement, I would watch as the grey would engulf the stone.
As the cement begins to desiccate, and the last of the stones had been place, we take a step back. He holds me gently in his arms and I nestle my face into his neck, inhaling that all too familiar scent of his.
“Perfect.” He whispers just barely audible for me to hear.
We look at each other smiling at the beautiful bird house we had just created. He kisses me sweetly upon the cheek as we turn to enter the house.
I still remember.
Often we lose sight of our greatest memories. As a child we frequently take what is precious to us for granted, and as we mature we realize how much we can miss someone once they leave us. But as years begin to pass, and you continue to live your life, you start to forget. You forget your most cherished memories, but not on purpose.
You forget the way he used to laugh at every joke you ever told. You forget the way his voice would sooth your hardened sorrows. You forget those horrible jokes he used to make and the way his hugs felt like a shield and that nothing could penetrate them. Then you’ll forget his features. Those laugh line from the decades of happiness, and his silver white hair that would glisten in the sunlight. That bright cheery smiles that could light up a room in even the darkest of hours.
Then one day you’ll notice you’ve forgotten almost everything and you feel so ashamed. You’ll quickly reach into that dresser drawer, rummaging for that picture you had taken all those years ago. You find it, and you smile as his face smiles back up at you, he’s wearing his favorite shirt, you’re hugging him. It was that bright summer day, where you had spent the day together, walking along the beach. You hug that photograph, trying to grasp those moments that were forgotten all those years ago. You keep trying, trying to hold on to him, trying to hold onto those moments; those moments of happiness with him.
We all forget, but not on purpose.
I can still remember when often my brain tries to forget.
At times I can feel tears roll down my face as the sadness engulfs me. I cry for the memories that were forgotten, the days that were lost. And I begin to think to myself, how could I have forgotten such an amazing person? A person that had impacted me since birth? How could I do this to him?
How could I have forgotten?