I Remember

I remember things. It’s not something I choose to do, it’s just an uncanny ability of mine. I know what you’re thinking. Remembering isn’t hard, mostly anyone can do it. But you’re wrong. I remember little things, things that happened long ago. Unnoticeable, unnotable occasions, things that meant nothing to no one--no one except me.
I remember when my mom accidentally ripped a picture of her and my grandfather, just a tiny tear too, less than half an inch, and for a moment she cried because her dad died when she was six. It was in the kitchen on a Sunday when I was four, and no one saw it except for me.
I don’t remember when the Twin Towers crashed. What I remember is going to Disney and riding the teacups until I puked. But when I got off, everything was different. Mom was crying, and daddy took my hand and rushed me out of the park. I didn’t know then, but I know now. That was my 9/11. Like I said, I remember weird things. I remember looks, hand movements, missing socks, but most of all, I remember you.
My favorite is when we were at the gas station. That’s the one I think of most now. Maybe because there was the possibility we could’ve blown up. Actually, that’s probably not why. I was watching you, and you were behaving in that odd way you always did when you were around me. I couldn’t help but notice it was odd, because at school you acted normal. Here’s how it goes: You’d open a candy bar, look at me, eat it. You’d play a song, glance in my direction, then sing along. You’d light a cigarette, see me judge, toss it.—there’s the blowing up factor. You’d tie your shoe, look at my shoe, and then make the final loop. Mostly, you’d just give me weird looks. And then the things you’d say…they were something you’d hear on a cheesy soap opera, I swear. At least that’s how it was when you were trying to impress me. Mostly on the phone I guess, when you had time to think before you called me. But when we were talking in person, when you were being yourself, you were ok. You were actually pretty extraordinary, when you spoke.

It was a weird day. Chris Clements had pretty much proposed to me in Biology, giving me a piece of paper with a heart he drew on it, and calling it “his” heart. Then he asked me out. You got really upset then, and I didn’t really get why considering you’d never called me pretty once, so I didn’t see why you should care. Anyways, I let you ramble on. Like I said, I always ended up loving when you rambled. “What an idiot,” you said, “what a phony. How cheap can you get?”

“How cheap?” I asked, confused. “He made it with love. Love isn’t cheap.”

“No, loves not cheap. It’s also not found in subjects not of the human species.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, even though I knew what it was supposed to mean.

“ Look, no need to get mad here. But all I know is that if I gave you my heart on a piece of paper I’d sure as hell take the time to draw you the real version—arteries and all--rather than take two seconds to draw you the symbol that looks like boobs.”

“Well you didn’t draw me a heart.” All I could say was the truth.

That got you. It really did. I know because you just looked down at the cement and didn’t say a thing, and you love to talk. Finally, a word. “No. No I didn’t,” and all I could wonder was why didn’t you?

I remember the last time I saw you at eighth grade graduation, and you tried to tell me something. Your shoelaces were orange, which was funny because they totally clashed with the gowns, which were blue. You told me you ran out of shoelaces, which was funny too, because no one ever says that.

I remember the graduation picture, when I wanted to kiss you like Lizzie did to Gordo because she knew he always loved her. But I didn’t because I was shy and I knew you weren’t which meant there had to be a real reason keeping us apart, and it wasn’t mine.

And I remember we were supposed to go to high school together, remember that? But we were never really supposed to, because you didn’t plan on it, you just told me we would and I believed you, because I loved you and I believed in everything I loved.

And I remember the last thing you said to me that day of eighth grade graduation before you got into your mom’s car, because your dad died when you were little and you couldn’t drive. “There’s something I have to tell you,” you said, all quiet and secret and shy-like, which was funny because you never got shy.

“What is it?” I asked, but you just shook your head.

“Forget it,” you smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I couldn’t say it.”

“Oh come on, I want to know!” You just shook your head. “Jesse, tell me!” But you just tickled me, and then you had to go.

I remember the text you sent me, later that night, the one I deleted because it made me so upset. But later I wished I’d saved it because I wanted to read it again to make sure it was true. “We can’t be friends anymore,” it said. Just that, and only that, as far as I can remember.

I didn’t know what to say. I thought it was a joke. “You’re my best friend,” I texted back, but there was no reply. And then August, right before the beginning of high school, after a summer of worrying about you, I get a phone call, and suddenly everything changed. Suddenly I didn’t have a best friend anymore. Crazy how your whole life could change after a five minute call. But I guess I’m putting everything out of context, because really, that’s not when my life changed. It changed in kindergarten, when I met you, and it changed everyday since as I fell in love with you. It changed when you told me we couldn’t be friends anymore, but it stayed exactly the same when you died because you were already out of my life. I’m not going to say how your life ended because I find speaking of people’s deaths rude, and when you categorize them into fatal illnesses, that takes the specialty and uniqueness away. What I will say is you knew. You knew for months, probably longer, and as much as I hate myself because of it, I will never forgive you for not telling me. I could of made you happy. I could have loved you and stayed with you as long as you lived. I told your mother this and she cried before telling me, “That’s exactly what you did,” but I can’t help but wonder if I did it well enough.

Jesse, I’m graduating high school next year. I’m in love with a boy named Nick. But yesterday was Halloween and I saw some orange pumpkins and they reminded me of you. That used to happen to me a lot. Everything reminded me of you. It’s been happening a lot less lately though, and that’s a good thing because thinking about you hurts. But when it does happen, I know it’s for a reason, so I don’t fight it, I just let the memories flow, like the blood in my arteries. See what happens, Jesse? See how everything connects, and how everything’s twisted like the white and orange cheese we bought when we were little, and peeled off in strings? You never gave your heart to me because you didn’t want to hurt me, but what you didn’t know is that you always had mine. Not on a pink piece of paper, but figuratively. Don’t worry though, you got the arteries and all—I wouldn’t give you a phony heart.