PUBLISHED August 31, 2012

I Remember…

I remember you, more than anything else about then, I remember you.

I remember 4th grade, for some reason it seems like the time my whole life took place. I remember having crushes on all the boys, on feeling like my teacher was like a second mother, of feeling horrific the one and only time I got in trouble.

I remember when someone tells me something horrible about myself, but not when they say something amazing. Except when my roommate last year said she could see me being the President. That I will always remember. I remember slamming my finger in the van door, not because it hurt but because my dad got so scared and I had never seen him lose his cool. Also, because I have a scar on my right middle finger that will never let me forget. I remember, on that note, how I got all of my scars, because there are so few of them on my body.

I remember wanting to remember the only time I had ever broken a bone. I was around the age, whatever the age is, that babies learn to walk. But I can’t remember that.

I remember so much because I’ve kept journals since fourth grade, the year my life took place, and re-read them so that I’ll always remember. I remember writing in my journals and saying “this way I will always remember.” In a way, journaling is the constant act of remembering. In a way, remembering has been the most important thing I’ve done my whole life.

I remember learning to write cursive. I thought it was so important. I thought everyone in the adult world wrote in cursive. I thought it was essential.

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