I remember my first run in with Death. I was a boy, my hair as blonde as ever and my soul just as clean. I can remember the melting pot of emotions and the taste of the salt-heavy tears chasing down my hot, confused cheeks. I remember that it was in August, and I remember the neighbors came to give my parents a bottle of red wine with a label that said “Lucky Dog”. I remember my dad’s voice explaining that the doctor would be able to take away her pain -- something I remember not quite understanding -- as he urged us to say our final goodbyes. I remember saying goodbye for the first time in my life where it didn’t mean “see you later.” I remember the feeling of my soft childhood hands trailing across her thick graying hair, gentle as my fingers hugged the collections of lumps acquired over the years. I remember going around in a circle, sitting on the red brick pavers leading up to our front door, each member of our family telling her our favorite memory. I remember having to make one up, being proud of my instantaneous creativity, and believing the rest of my family bought the story of all four legs fitting on top of the fire hydrant in Langley's front yard. I remember the lingering guilt of this story that still runs through me every time I look at her picture in the “Bow Wow” frame, and I still notice the sunlight trickling through the diamond-cut glass in the foyer, speaking only to the dust that settles where she used to nap.

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I can’t remember whether it was Sammie or Sammy (it’s Sammie, I texted my mom), and I can’t remember the year (we think it was 2009, but nobody really has the heart to double check) my parents drove her down the driveway and came back without her. I can’t remember what we did the day before or the hours after, nor can I remember the last time I clipped her leash, perhaps a purple or a dark blue, to her collar, which I think has to be a light green (but I really can’t say).

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I’ve never told anybody these things, as I suppose they would tell me, “oh, it doesn’t matter,” and “you remember her” or “you remember her love”. I find comfort in this sentiment, but I still can’t move beyond the tiny little details that made every moment what they were being lost in the history of my eyes. I move through this life desperately waiting for what comes next, still learning to admire the small wonders floating around me with every blink. The first January snowflake that melts on my frostbitten nose, the smell of instant oatmeal before 9am, the song of mourning doves in my backyard as stray pebbles from the cart path dig into the bottoms of my barefoot feet.

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If my life is to be a collection of all my experiences, from first kisses and accidentally waving at strangers to broken loves and beautiful friendships, I think I won’t be doing much living if I’m stuck misplacing these memories in nooks and crannies of my brain inaccessible by my soul. It isn’t enough for me to remember the idea of something that was or to name the feeling of an emotion that has passed. It is too much a risk to rely on the color of her leash and the shade of her collar to reveal themselves to me only when my life flashes before my eyes seconds before I close them forever. 

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I do not feel the need to tell stories full of little details because I think they ought to be told, and I do not find the joy in saying one thing through metaphors of so many others. I feel the need to remember the seconds I stopped to smell the roses and I find the joy in being able to revisit that smell while further down the road. I create happiness for myself in traveling time, by treasuring my past and charting out my futures. I experience peace in giving myself the voice I often talk over, in making space for the jostling thoughts whistling within my skull.

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I fear the day I will die as much as any other, but I fear nothing more than for the day to come before I’ve had the chance to remember all the things I was meant to forget. To speak all of the words I planned to say aloud. To cherish the love, the pain, laughter, confusion, the unanswered questions and the unfinished answers.

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I do not smear ink across the page to leave a mark before Death comes for me; I give life to my thoughts so they may be remembered before my eyes long after they’re forgotten behind them.

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February 1, 2021

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