Memory March

Contains: Minor explicit language.

“You know you can’t take this with you to the dorms, right?”

I was wondering how long it would take my mom to notice the box labeled him in the midst of the cardboard hell I had created over the last few weeks. I’m actually shocked it took her until the night of my departure to get her hands on it. She lifted the flaps and began sifting through old memories as she continued her advice.

“Breakups are hard, I know. Especially your first one,” she said, “I held onto my first boyfriend’s jacket for eight months after he shattered my heart, but you can’t carry it with you forever.” 

“It’s more than that,” I said to her as I took the glass penguin from her hands and replaced it back in the box, “You know it’s so much more than that.” 

As we hauled the last load of boxes to my car (the him one included), I stood back to take a long look at my house. The house I lived in for my entire life up until today. My safe haven through every stage of adolescence – from recovering from mean kids on the playground to the aftermath of a peer-pressured graduation party. Obviously I knew I’d be back home, but it will be as a guest and no longer a usual occupant. 

“Are you sure you want to head out tonight?” my mom said. “Orientation isn’t until tomorrow.”

I replied, “Yeah I know but, memory march,” as I struggled to close my trunk over my belongings. 

A few months ago, I read this article on a college life blog entitled Memory March. It was written by a seventeen year old girl who drove one final lap around her hometown before leaving it to start her next chapter elsewhere. It was her way of symbolically thanking her roots for getting her to that point, and then letting go of everything up until that point. Although the thought of closing a door on this town terrified, and partially saddened, me, mom was right. I can’t carry this with me forever. 

My mom tried to keep it cool during my send off but my tear-soaked shoulder said otherwise. I’m glad I noticed it as I was buckling my seatbelt or my hysteria would have broken my “cool” exterior too. I took the stereotypical glance in my rearview as I turned out of the drive. My mom was on the reflecting end of that, stereotypically waving to me until I got out of sight. 

I had a split second where I began to wonder where I would “march” to, but my body already knew. My hand was flipping the blinker to turn onto Brandy Street before I was even consciously aware of it. 

I parked at the pulloff because I wanted to walk down his road instead – driving would make this too quick. We walked this road together countless times. The road that took me to and from his childhood home every weekend that we’d hang out. Which was (plot twist) every weekend. I walked past the vacant saltbox house that we’d detour behind to access the riverbank. Where we used to sit for way too long throwing rocks and foolishly discussing future plans. I walked through that spot just below the hill that was always shaded from the pine trees lining it. The spot that he’d always stop to twirl me around to the nonexistent soundtrack we somehow agreed upon. 

When I finally reached his house, I could see shadows of our teenage selves running barefoot through the grass. The faint sounds of our naive laughter echoed through the valley his house was tucked into. Despite the apparent facelift by the current owners, the familiarity that permeated the air was pulling my body to his old front door. It was a force so strong that I physically had to fight it to turn around and walk back toward the road. 

That dirt road absorbed every footstep of our relationship – the slow steps we’d take when we had no other place to be, the ones that crossed the line his parents set as a turnaround boundary and even the harsh tracks of every argument that felt like the one that would break us.

The walk back to my car felt colder and quicker. As I buckled back up, tear soaked again (mine this time), my elbow brushed the box that couldn’t fit in the trunk and had to ride shotgun all this time. Him. 

My relationship with him started just how I’d imagine any freshman couple did. I literally fell in love with him from across a gymnasium dancefloor. It was my first year at Lindeve High. I had just moved to Lindeve that summer and only had time to meet a few girls from my street. The four of us trashed each other up and went to homecoming together that year. That was the last year I went stag to any other school event. Because there he was, in the center of a circle of sweaty freshmen buried in glow accessories, doing the most beautiful Stankey Legg the world had seen. That was it for me. 

I preface us with those cliche beginnings because our middle and ending were everything but typical. As our friends were fighting over deceitful texts to the opposite sex, we argued over which Kendrick Lamar song was the best (Poetic Justice. Still.) No part of us wanted to waste a single second being genuinely unhappy with one another – we just loved. Gushingly. Effortlessly. Foolishly. 

Our ending wasn’t full of hate and blame, unlike the drama our peers ensued after their short-lived thrill seeking relationships. Neither one of us saw it coming. I go through moments wishing it could have been different. Fantasizing about a normal break-up and, then, a natural recovery. After the shit talking texts I’d send to my girls and the ceremonial burning of his things, of course. I somehow feel as if having a negative “last” memory of him would be better than all of these blissful ones that hauntingly float around in my head. It wouldn’t be nearly as crippling to let go of. Although, I’m not even sure I want to let go.

All of these memories flashed through my head with blurred edges as I sat in the parking lot of Lindeve High alone in my car. Our high school was the first place I wrote down on my memory march rough draft. From sharing a locker to petitioning a schedule change to conjoined lunchtimes to our principal, 80 percent of our time was spent here. It’s getting harder to picture these recaps as more time grows between the present and the last time we talked.

Sickened by the thought of losing these memories completely one day, I started my car back up to march on.

I saved this spot for last because I knew he’d be here. I needed this drive to clear my head so I knew exactly what to say when I got in front of him. I parked my car and walked up the narrow cobblestone path until I got to him. 

“Well today’s the day,” I said nervously. “The day we talked about for years. I only wish I could say we made it.”

I placed the cardboard box by my feet, made my way down to my knees and cleaned off his headstone to better see his name. 

Tyler Fae

September 7, 1994 – June 24, 2012

I opened the box just to pull out a glass penguin, fold the flaps back up and gently pat it as I stood back up to return to my car.

“I’ll carry you with me forever,” I whisper as I turn around, not looking back.