I Sold A Memory Today

I sold a memory today.

It was gunmetal blue, the color of fresh air and freedom, the speed of life when you forget to breathe it in, the reminder to breathe it in, with four wheels and a dent on the passenger side from when I hit a taxicab on my way home from a first date with a boy with a four-leaf clover tattoo.

I can’t remember why there was no second date, except that he tried and then I tried and then I think we both forgot to keep trying.

I think a lot of life is forgetting to keep trying.

(Remind me, remind me.)

I sold a memory today.

I meant to sell it earlier, but I wanted to save my money for cross-country plane tickets to see a man about my heart.

It got lost with my luggage, coming home.

It might have gotten lost before that, in his hands.

(I should ask him if he’s seen it.)

I sold a memory today.

It held a first kiss in the parking lot of a naval base, just before curfew. I traced my steering wheel, over and over again, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping. He was nervous, and so was I.

I drove home with one foot already dangling in love, the radio turned loud, every song a love song.

I sold a memory today.

It had blinking hazard lights and airport attendants waving me on, but I was in the middle of a goodbye I didn’t want to end. When you don’t know if you’ll ever see someone again, it’s hard to let them walk away. To decide what the last thing you ever say to them will be, the last thing you ever hear them say.

The last thing he said was, “I’m sorry.”

The last thing I said was, “Goodbye.”

I think we both could have done better.

I sold a memory today, and I had to settle on the price.

Car dealerships don’t care about things like freedom and first love. They dust the ashes off the passenger seat and wipe the tear-stained streaks from the radio dials. They make it as good as new for whoever comes next. Whoever will make it into a memory all their own.

I want to pin a note to the headrest of the driver seat and let them know that the last head that rested there was full to the brim of hope.

I want to pin a note to the center console that says the hands that held onto each other so tightly across it didn’t mean to let go; it just happened one day, and my hand’s been reaching ever since.

I want to pin a note to all four tires – maybe tape these instead so they don’t all burst – that says the road they drove wasn’t always smooth, wasn’t always paved. But it took me places I needed to go to be where I am and who I am today.

It brought me here.

And here, the sun is shining.

Here, I will find, make, build myself –

A brand new memory.