Is It Enough?

Me: "Hold on, I want to give you this CD to remember me by."
Mordus: "Won't the memories be enough?"

Hmmm. This boy raised a good point. We had a memorable time together and I've looked back on it fondly a lot lately since most of my recent memories with boys are not so good. I think of him when I watch Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom ("boy Haylee, you sure know how to pick out a good couples movie") or whenever someone mentions the Cape Fear 7's tournament (where we met).

But I don't have anything I can hold in my hands and close my eyes and sigh and let the mental images of us together take over my brain for a few seconds. And that's probably a good thing. He was hard enough to let go when I left, because his armor never tarnished for me since our time together was so brief. Plus he was just sweet. It didn't seem real at the time, even though I was more present in the moment with him than I ever had been with anyone else, no doubt because we knew the moment wouldn't last long at all. Having tangible evidence of the experience would confirm its realness for me I think, but why justify it when the memories should be enough?

Perhaps the bigger question is why I wanted him to remember me. I know that my main "love language" is gifts (the others being acts of service, words of affirmation, physical touch and quality time), so it was a token of affection. But I think deeper than that, and darker, I wanted to ingratiate myself in this boy's mind, and he isn't the only one. Artists and writers produce works to leave behind, maybe to validate themselves as worthy of being remembered. All artists are insecure about their art at times and I am no different. The songs I've written about boys are more about me than them if that makes any sense. Even when I thought I loved someone and had their best interests in mind, my motives were still somewhat selfish. Maybe I'm being too self-critical, I have a tendency to do that, but STILL. Ultimately I feel I wanted him to remember me because I knew I wouldn't forget him.

Anyhow, I do have some mementos that comfort me in this way: the afghan my great-grandmother Irene crocheted for me. My dad's old baseball glove I used in Little League that I still have. The Florida Cup trophy we won in 2002 reminds me of the glory days in college. All my old journals help me remember who I was and how far I've come and give me a glimpse into the workings of my twisted mind on a certain date. My rugby ball reminds me of my wonderful teammates in Raleigh.

Memories are good, but I don't want to live them again. I want to make new ones. But I'll wrap myself in my afghan and feel safe and loved just like when Grandmother was here, and be thankful that I have pleasant things to look back on. And if I ever finish one of the four or five songs I started to write about Mordus, I'll have that too.