Memory

The snow fell in a steady rhythm, the cold leaving a layer of their own on her windows and her flowers that once bloomed brighter than her, now fell under the weight of frost. Her day began the same as the others, except for the lack of work emails littering her inbox. She should have known that it was Christmas. How could she have gone the entire month of December without noticing. She passed Christmas lights, the smell of hot chocolate in her usual coffee shop and even missed the over population of her quaint town. It was not as if she was unaware of her surroundings. She had always prided herself on knowing what was in front, beside and behind her.

Perhaps, subconsciously, she had ignored the holiday because she wished to ignore the memories that blinked with its magical lights. Her senses blinded to the smells and obvious happiness of others. It was when she sat in her favorite cafe, that she truly noticed how oblivious she had been. How locked away she must have been. It was not the paper snowflakes hanging above her head or the constant Christmas carols echoing around the room that told her. Nor was it the smells of hot chocolate, pine, and firewood.

It was the smell of him. The faint scent of old books and mahogany. The sort of smell that stops your heart. It constricts the air from reaching your lungs and stops your fidgeting. It meant that he was there. He was sitting somewhere in the room, thinking that she would not notice him if she could not see him, but that is not how love worked. Love was the sixth sense to the original five. A sixth sense that understood the other five. Love knew every curve to a fingerprint. It knew the exact vibrato of a laugh and it knew the taste of whiskey on breath. Her love knew the smell that clung to his shirt.

A shirt that she once wore. A shirt that she never dreamed of returning and was never requested to be returned. She could tell that he was sitting somewhere behind her, and she could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. Her hair felt heavy as it remembered his fingers even in their absence. The way her skin raised in tiny goosebumps drew her into a trance. It was like the café turned into memory right before her.

           The chairs turned from an unfinished wood to the soft orange ones that he always hated. She used to laugh at him as he refused to sit in them in protest. She could see the beautiful, Turkish chandelier that hung above her dining table. A gift from him. One that she remembered made her think that “her” home was destined to become “theirs”. The smell of pasta seemed so real as she sat alone, remembering the laughter that filled the kitchen. Homemade pasta and sauce that almost ended up in smoke. The funny way that the house would smell of Italian food as they ate Chinese takeout.

Most heavily, she could feel the weight on her left ring finger. The weight of something that once was. A heaviness that did not stop at her hand but reached her heart for the first time on a Tuesday evening. The café sounds practically drowned under the sounds of arguing. Harsh words flew around. The whole house felt like it was shaking that night, but then she remembered that it was her. She was the one shaking. And she shook as she cried and screamed and begged. She could never forget the way she made herself weak in desperation. Desperate to fix what would never be the same.

           She blinked at the sound of the real chair behind her. The chair in the café that she frequented alone every morning. She felt the tear on her cheek, but let it sit, leaving her hands around her hot mug. And then, as she expected, three more chairs followed. His smell slowly and quietly left the room. A bell ringing behind it.

           And then, she did what she always did. She looked out the window and watched. She watched as though the man that walked by had no relevance to her. As if, there were never orange chairs or burnt pasta sauce. He did as he always did. He did not look back or falter in his steps as he held the hand of another. He pretended to not know as two small hands clung to one of his and a mother’s. His little feet swung in the air, an innocent giggle that would never know. His child would never know that his father loved anyone except his mother. His mother would never know that he took them every Christmas to catch a glimpse of her blonde hair.

           As she walked through the snow, she left her gloves in her pockets. The feeling of numbness reminding her where she was. She only let herself wonder for a second if his hands still felt the same. She walked past her bright yellow front door, further down her now familiar street and found where she sat every Christmas. The holiday that she only remembered because of that smell of old books and memory. And as she sat on that bench, she let herself think of the memories that could have been. A minute of self-pity that she rarely allowed herself.

           She heard the countdown in the background as she thought of the child that could have stood between her and him. The days of laughter, tears and love that would never come. The café that she would never have to visit. And then, she thought of the memories without him. The exact same future, a blank spot next to her. And as the biggest Christmas tree in the city glowed, on the other side of the river, she realized that some memories are lost. Some of them, she did not have to find, because they would find her. M