I remember the heat of my carseat in the sun-soaked Miami drive, the tightness in my hands, with the sensation of crashing into a car at every turn.
I remember when I used to fall in love easily. When I held onto you and you did too, for a long time. We would be out in the park’s balcony sometimes and eating greens. Or smoking it.
I remember when I used to like to swim. Once, younger, I dreamt that I could reach the deep end. I don’t swim anymore. Not because I don’t like the water covering my face, the gleam drinking my face. No, it felt good. The deep felt good. Now it’s because I can reach the deep end. Now the burn of sun comes closest to the fathomless edge.
I remember drinking my gut out. Or not. Snippets of my body inhaling cups of incineration. Nothing next except the feeling of flying in a taxi cab and then a sudden punch in the stomach. And the heavy vomit everywhere.
I remember. No, wait. I forgot. I always forget to remember. The small things. Gifts. Remembering how to act like a whole person sometimes. Remember to open your mouth when speaking. Remember to close your mouth when eating. Remember, remember, remember. Remember all these rules. Then forget them again.