The Lovers We Lose
Tomorrow, I Promise to remember her in a million different ways.
This morning in Amherst it was minus seven degrees Celsius. As I walked to campus, I was surprised to find myself feeling grateful that the days were beginning to warm up.
I am here because I live my life trying to impress a dead woman. Studying abroad, I thought, would make her proud. As if she might resurrect herself, smile at me and say, 'What have I missed? Tell me everything.'
---
On the flight, from Sydney to Los Angeles, I sat beside a Scottish man.
'If ya don't want to feel the cold,' he told me. 'Collect a bucket of icy-water and slush each morning, take it to the bathroom, strip off, and throw it over yourself.' His long rusty beard hardly moved as he spoke.
'Utter bullshit,' I imagined her saying.
I haven't yet attempted to accelerate acclimatisation in this way. And I'm skeptical that, after being here for only three weeks, I've physically acclimatised to the North American winter. More likely, it's a shift in perception rather than a physiological adjustment.
---
When I get home later today, my room will still be in a state of liminal chaos. With clothes, adapters, chargers, books, pens, and photographs still spilling from suitcases and onto the floor, unsure of whether they are coming or going. In the midst of the mess I'll clear a space, boot up my computer and Skype my brother.
We'll talk about the magazine we're going to start. About the recordings we'll make when Lindsey gets out of jail. We feel guilty, and ashamed, that Lindsey's locked up. We know the only reason he's serving time is because of the colour of his skin. We know but we don't know how to fix it.
Then we'll talk about books, surfing and poetry. For a little while, I'll forget that the only thing separating me from the glacial age lurking outside is a sheet of glass.
This is memory speaking.
Often, I swing between memories like sugar-gliders briefly gripping boughs as they fly through trees.
---
Sometimes, not-so-long-ago is also a-lifetime-ago.
Not so long ago, I had a crush. It was incidental and accidental, it was impossible and unbearable. It was that unavoidable hill on the walk home. Only when my breath is catching, my chest is pounding, and my muscles are burning, am I aware that I am exercising. Or, to be more specific, that exercise is being done to me.
I'm not sure what is more memorable, doing things or having things done to you. Either way, tomorrow, she's been dead for two years. Tomorrow, I promise to remember her in a million different ways.
This is memory jogging.
Often, I like to define.
---
Memory n. 1 the faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information.
Three weeks ago I sat tracing lines of mirages in sweltering heat.
I reminisced over the springtime, when my brother and I caught waves beneath blossoming-blue clouds. It had been my birthday and watching my brother glide over green-reef and crystalline-ocean is an image I cherish.
This is memory clinging.
Often, memory deviates definition.
image generated by lexicaThrough the kitchen window I see squirrels eating apples. And Blue Jays eating seed, proudly perched upon the backyard bird-feed.
I wonder why my brother and I remember things differently, does he remember the smell of padded-walls, or air gasping as heavy doors shut behind us?
I won't ask him.
Instead, I'll tell him about the time that I cultivated curry-leaf twigs in dense tropical dew. Then sent them off in packages, flying in water-soaked-rags and stamped envelopes, to land at her door.
This is memory meandering.
Often, remembering is no stroll down memory-lane.
---
One year ago, with wet eyelashes, my brother told me the smell of gunpowder reminded him of blood-splattered walls. Those walls, I don't remember.
With dry eyelashes I told him, 'The smell of gunpowder reminds me of skinned rabbits, smoked kangaroo and baked duck.'
This is memory redefining.
Often, remembering is walking through valleys-of-death.
---
Two years ago, on the night of the supermoon, she was gone. Recently, I read that supermoons can cause all sorts of earthly explosions, cyclones, earthquakes, and erupting volcanoes. The moon was her favourite thing, and this one brought tsunamis of grief.
This is memory enshrining.
Often, I remind myself that I am only one in the city of battered-yet-still-beating hearts that she left behind.
This is memory relapsing.
---
Often, I remind myself to forget.
Sitting on my bed with pages of my manuscript sprawled about me I wonder whether I'm genetically inclined for longevity. Certainly not on my father's side. And it's doubtful that my current lifestyle is in anyway compatible with longevity.
And so it occurs to me, that perhaps I've lived longer in the past than I can expect to live in the future. Perhaps I have more to remember than I have to look forward to.
Perhaps this is memory becoming.
---
Stevi-Lee Alver is an Australian writer and tattoo artist. She lives in the middle of Brazil with her wife. She loves bush walks and waterfalls but misses the ocean.
'The Lovers We Lose' was first published, as 'Memory Refrained', in Westerly Magazine, Volume 62 Number 1, July 2017.
About the Creator
Stevi-Lee Alver
Australian writer and tattoo artist based in Brazil. 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
Reader insights
Nice work
Very well written. Keep up the good work!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Comments (3)
Very intriguing, I liked it. Liminal - what a great word 😁 I think there's an image missing - it just says "image by lexica"?
Hey great job Stevi. A very thoughtful piece. 😊 I’ve subscribed for more. Here is one of my latest short poems you may wish to check out. Thanks. https://vocal.media/poets/angelic-activation
Nice piece ❤️