Conversation with Sophia
~Spencer Davimos~
Does time bury memories in the clouds? Shape them into rain that precipitates to home base? Or does time bury memories in paper envelopes- for my guardian angel to protect under her wings? Just two months ago, we sat at this table. Our final lunch together. The drapes under your eyes weighed down your face (if I had reached over and held your face in the palm of my hands, I could have traced the grill marks all the way back to your ears). A ball and chain hung from your spine, which caused your body to slump into the shape of a question mark. I watched your hands shake while you struggled to lift your cheese sandwich to your mouth, as if you tried to join together magnets from the same pole. I didn’t know what to say to you. Would you have felt weird if I asked whether you slept the night before? Embarrassed? Confused? I still wonder if things would have turned out differently had I asked. My mind was scrambled eggs in a heated pan, and I couldn’t store my concerns back inside the shell. Where does time bury the good memories? Inside of an old pizza box I’ve yet to throw out? Or have they collected dust while trapped in the crevices of my couch? Your laugh has formed a shadow that lurks beside me in the halls of this school. When we walk, it brushes against my fingertips, compliments my hair, tells me I could get any guy I want. It resonates in everything I hear— the sound of the bell that rings when class starts and ends, the whispers of our classmates, coins clicking into the vending machines. You’re everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. I remember you once told me that words lose their meaning the second they’re written down. Once you place them on a sheet of paper it can be crumpled up and tossed into the trash before it ever meets the hands of the person you wanted to have read it. You said the only words that have permanence are ones inscribed on the skin, and I know that as time passes, my memory of that conversation will fade from me. But, my memory of you now rests in the lines of your name that I got tattooed on my wrist. As I trace it, I can faintly feel your touch.
40
