The honey reminds me of Brianna, and a night dodging mosquitos in June. Peanut butter reminds me of Sarah, her kisses after lunch tasting sweetly of her sandwich.
I sigh, and the sound is Margaret’s amused disapproving tone. I cannot decide between the flickering flourescent (Candy’s apartment) or the incadescent bulb (fumbling teenage nights with Haley).
My friend says that his girlfriend is always getting on his case for forgetting. She quizzes him on what she was wearing (on our first date, Tanya was wearing a burgandy sweater that didn’t flatter her at all) or when dates were (Karen and I broke up exactly 857 days after we first went out). I tell him to weather it.
The insulation is all in place, and I lie back in the warm water (Mother). Everything triggers a memory of the women I have loved, triggers the heartache of their loss in my perfect, perfect memory.
I pull the sensory deprivation chamber’s door shut, hear the brief click before sound is gone.
I relax.
And then I hear the heartbeat, my heartbeat, and I remember each of them.
I remember all of them.
I remember.