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Scraps of Fabric
Mar. 10th, 2010 01:14 amEver wake up to a song in your head and wonder if it was the soundtrack to a dream?
I woke up with something like that happening, except instead of a song, it was a memory. I'm a firm believer that our brain stores everything we experience from the moment we are born, and that all it takes is the right elements to project them onto the movie screen of our mind.
The brilliance of the memory, along with the certainty that it *was* a memory and not just something that my brain just made up, was enough to bring me to full alertness from what felt like a deep sleep. Something like that can cause what I refer to as emotional whiplash, a kind of surreal confusion that rocks you, and won't let go.
Even though I was fully awake, I was afraid to move. This was an important memory, one that I desperately wanted to hold onto, and I worried that any stimulus: a noise, a thought, even the feel of the bedsheets against my skin, would cause the memory to slip away. And so I lay there, and I focused on the images that were in my mind.
Last year, I posted about my first authentic gay experience, and in essence my first boyfriend. The boy in the post was the subject of that memory.
Like most dreams, and like most memories, the beginning and end are fuzzy, like the ends of a tattered cloth, so I can't really explain the why and the how, just the what I can remember.
He and I were laying next to each other, holding hands, not saying much at all. We weren't watching TV, we weren't playing video games, and we weren't making out, which was what we usually did if we weren't doing the former.
For some reason, we just wanted to be near each other, taking comfort in each other's company.
I almost jumped out of my skin when he broke the silence with a question I had long since forgotten he had asked.
"Hey," he said, his voice beginning as a rasp, "do you love me?"
He asked the question in the same way a person would ask if they wanted to get a burger, or if it was alright to change the channel. In retrospect, I understood, since neither of us had any experience asking a question like that in the context he meant.
I thought about the question, and decided that my gut feeling wasn't going to steer me wrong.
"Yes." I said, squeezing his hand.
"But is it even possible?" he asked, looking into my eyes. He had beautiful eyes, always watching, always sad.
"Huh?" I said.
"For you to love me?" he asked, his expression so serious it scared me.
I didn't know how to respond with an answer, so I chose a question instead.
"Do you love me?" I asked.
Without hesitation, he kissed me on the forehead. In my youth, it was more than a yes.
"Then it's possible." I said then, kissing him on the lips. I thought this would end up with another make out session, but neither of us made the first move. It didn't seem right. Something happened, and we were too naive to see what it really was.
I can't remember what happened before, or what happened after. I don't know if I will, either. It was like finding a torn scrap of cloth in a pile of laundry. It looks familiar, but I can't place what larger fabric it was torn from.
After I assured myself that the memory wasn't going to fade, I allowed myself the time to feel loss. A loss of youth, a loss of innocence, and the loss of him. He was my friend more than anything, and his story didn't deserve the ending that was written.
I started imagining what it would be like to run into him one day while I was in Indianapolis. We would spend a lot of time just marveling at the coincidence that brought us together, and we would try to fill each other in on our lives, telling stories about ourselves in fits and starts. I would tell him we should do something sometime, maybe dinner with our respective husbands, and we would trade information.
Of course, these things can never happen. He is gone, and all I have to remember him by are the scraps of fabric that are my memories of him. I hope I can remember more, and maybe I can sew the pieces together. The more I sort through my memories to find something else, the more frustrated I get, so I will just let it be. Maybe there are more memories. Maybe there aren't. Only time will tell.
Getting out of bed wasn't easy, but it was necessary. I knew that if I thought about him too much, the sadness would mark my entire day. So, went into my office first thing, pulled up my music composition software, and began to compose.
As I did, I thought about another memory of the two of us, one that was happier, and much funnier. It was funny to us anyway, one of those things that only we would have found funny. I chuckled, I wrote a song, I saved it, I tucked it away with a smile as I tucked away the memory.
Then my stomach reminded me that it was time for breakfast. I left the office with the tune in my head, and a smile on my face.
I woke up with something like that happening, except instead of a song, it was a memory. I'm a firm believer that our brain stores everything we experience from the moment we are born, and that all it takes is the right elements to project them onto the movie screen of our mind.
The brilliance of the memory, along with the certainty that it *was* a memory and not just something that my brain just made up, was enough to bring me to full alertness from what felt like a deep sleep. Something like that can cause what I refer to as emotional whiplash, a kind of surreal confusion that rocks you, and won't let go.
Even though I was fully awake, I was afraid to move. This was an important memory, one that I desperately wanted to hold onto, and I worried that any stimulus: a noise, a thought, even the feel of the bedsheets against my skin, would cause the memory to slip away. And so I lay there, and I focused on the images that were in my mind.
Last year, I posted about my first authentic gay experience, and in essence my first boyfriend. The boy in the post was the subject of that memory.
Like most dreams, and like most memories, the beginning and end are fuzzy, like the ends of a tattered cloth, so I can't really explain the why and the how, just the what I can remember.
He and I were laying next to each other, holding hands, not saying much at all. We weren't watching TV, we weren't playing video games, and we weren't making out, which was what we usually did if we weren't doing the former.
For some reason, we just wanted to be near each other, taking comfort in each other's company.
I almost jumped out of my skin when he broke the silence with a question I had long since forgotten he had asked.
"Hey," he said, his voice beginning as a rasp, "do you love me?"
He asked the question in the same way a person would ask if they wanted to get a burger, or if it was alright to change the channel. In retrospect, I understood, since neither of us had any experience asking a question like that in the context he meant.
I thought about the question, and decided that my gut feeling wasn't going to steer me wrong.
"Yes." I said, squeezing his hand.
"But is it even possible?" he asked, looking into my eyes. He had beautiful eyes, always watching, always sad.
"Huh?" I said.
"For you to love me?" he asked, his expression so serious it scared me.
I didn't know how to respond with an answer, so I chose a question instead.
"Do you love me?" I asked.
Without hesitation, he kissed me on the forehead. In my youth, it was more than a yes.
"Then it's possible." I said then, kissing him on the lips. I thought this would end up with another make out session, but neither of us made the first move. It didn't seem right. Something happened, and we were too naive to see what it really was.
I can't remember what happened before, or what happened after. I don't know if I will, either. It was like finding a torn scrap of cloth in a pile of laundry. It looks familiar, but I can't place what larger fabric it was torn from.
After I assured myself that the memory wasn't going to fade, I allowed myself the time to feel loss. A loss of youth, a loss of innocence, and the loss of him. He was my friend more than anything, and his story didn't deserve the ending that was written.
I started imagining what it would be like to run into him one day while I was in Indianapolis. We would spend a lot of time just marveling at the coincidence that brought us together, and we would try to fill each other in on our lives, telling stories about ourselves in fits and starts. I would tell him we should do something sometime, maybe dinner with our respective husbands, and we would trade information.
Of course, these things can never happen. He is gone, and all I have to remember him by are the scraps of fabric that are my memories of him. I hope I can remember more, and maybe I can sew the pieces together. The more I sort through my memories to find something else, the more frustrated I get, so I will just let it be. Maybe there are more memories. Maybe there aren't. Only time will tell.
Getting out of bed wasn't easy, but it was necessary. I knew that if I thought about him too much, the sadness would mark my entire day. So, went into my office first thing, pulled up my music composition software, and began to compose.
As I did, I thought about another memory of the two of us, one that was happier, and much funnier. It was funny to us anyway, one of those things that only we would have found funny. I chuckled, I wrote a song, I saved it, I tucked it away with a smile as I tucked away the memory.
Then my stomach reminded me that it was time for breakfast. I left the office with the tune in my head, and a smile on my face.
