The Value of Remembering

I can’t trust the specifics of my memory. Can you? Do you? When you think of things that happened, how detailed do you remember it and how sure are you that that’s exactly how it went down?

I see my memories as an impression of an event. They’re flawed and fragmented but yet full and complete. The fullness is the feeling of the memory while the memory itself, the details, that’s what’s fragmented. That’s what’s missing.

The closer I look at it, the more I see that the pieces just don’t connect. Like a photograph in a newspaper, just a series of dots. Half tones.

I say this because of the thing I’m struggling to remember now. It’s an unpleasant memory. Does that factor into why it’s difficult to remember? Am I repressing things as a way to protect myself? I don’t know. I doubt it.

Let’s test it. Let me think of a happy time and let’s see how close to real it is.

I’m thinking of a birthday. My parents bought me a cake with Garfield on it. They got me a boombox for a present. It’s maybe the biggest gift I remember them ever getting me as a kid. I’m maybe 7 or 8. I don’t remember any friends being at this party. Just me, my sister, my mom, my dad and my grandmother.

She was married to another man, not my grandfather. I don’t think he ever liked us. He used to tear pieces of white bread and toss them into a glass of milk, like it was cereal. But it wasn’t any ol’ glass. It had a pedestal. Like a milk shake glass you used to see at old soda fountains.

I remember he would watch old westerns on TV while eating his fancy milk shake/bread/cereal.

He wasn’t there that night, even though it was his house.

When I think of this night, I usually see flashes of a photograph. There is an image of me with my dad. We’re holding the cake up towards the camera. My dad is wearing this blue Hawaiian shirt. He has a porn star stache and a fading hairline. He could be drunk. But I don’t think so. He looks like he genuinely wants me to like that cake and to like that night.

I’m grasping. I’m grasping for anything real or exact from that night. It’s just fragments. Pieces of my childhood. So why is my memory betraying me? Why won’t it back me up? Why won’t it transport me back in time as memories should?

All my memories can’t be tainted.

The thing I’m trying to remember involves Her. She’s this thing, this series of events that haunts me. She’s significant and substantial, therefore a capital H. Although capital H pronoun is usually reserved for God, she’s not that Her or Him. She’s just my Her.

For being a Her, a significant and substantial person in my life, I never talk about Her. I try never to think about Her but I do from time to time. Usually, it’s by accident. Usually, it’s something else that triggers it.

Today, I was watching a documentary about a man and he talks about the first time he fucked a woman. That immediately brought Her to mind. He went on to describe his Her. She was large. Obese. He hated the way Her pussy smelled.

Check.

Check.

Check.

He seemed to speak for me. But as I thought about it, like really thought about it, it just didn’t connect. I could smell Her pussy and Her sweat. It was putrid. But was that me latching on to someone else’s memories or was that my memory?

My memories betray me.

Here’s the way I remember it. It might be wrong. There may be gaps and the parts that are full may have once been gaps that I filled in years ago with different impressions or memories of Her. There’s really only so much I know for sure:

1. She was 29.

2. I was 12.

3. It lasted 4 years.

4. I thought I wanted it.

The fourth one is still tough to nail down. Mostly the tense or at least the implication of saying, “I thought I…” Usually when you say something like that, it implies that you’ve since changed your mind.

Have I? Maybe I really did want it. I mean, I never protested. In fact, sometimes I begged for it. Even when she told me we shouldn’t do it again, I begged until she relented. Does that make Her culpable? Or was I convincing? Alluring? Irresistible? Lovable?

What was I to Her?

When I remember it, it’s graphic. It’s always the sex. I feel the weight of Her on top of me. I feel it mostly in my legs because that’s where the weight was concentrated.

She didn’t fuck me a lot when she was on top but for some reason, those few times are the ones that are the most memorable. Maybe it was the physical strain of a 12, 13, 14, 15, or 16 year old heaving the corpulent body of a woman two times his size resting on his legs.

It’s strange though to remember things in your thighs. It’s not a tickle. But a warmth. Then a weight. I see Her on top of me, a purple and black nightie stretching at the seams.

I feel the slime of Her pussy on my dick. That’s all I can really call it. It seemed to be thicker than any fluid I’ve felt since. Like an oil. She always wore too much perfume and makeup.

And from the breasts up, she smelled nice. As you move down, the smell of the oil and slime overtakes my memories.

I can sometimes feel the moisture of Her folds. I can feel the dimples in Her ass. I can feel Her hot breath on my neck and Her little whimpers as she fucked me.

They were subtle and seemed genuine, as if she actually was being aroused by a child. And she must’ve, right? Why else would you fuck a child unless you physically enjoyed it?

I don’t know. Perhaps she was lonely.

She was divorced with two kids. One was a couple years younger than me and the other was just a toddler when this all started.

I remember one time she had to have me. Her toddler was home and barely walking. I was 13. I fucked Her on the floor of the nursery while he cried. I think I watched him more than I watched Her.

I don’t know how I came. But I did.

I think the creepiest thing about all of it is how it started. It sounds like a cliched pedophile story. She worked for a product distribution company in my home town. And she would get damaged toys and comic books and bring them home to Her kids or really any of the neighborhood kids that hung out in the neighborhood.

I latched onto the comic books. I’d read a lot of comics. My favorites were the X-Men. They’re these outcast teenagers with special powers that they have to hide from the world or else face the persecution of that world. Ironically enough, they use the same powers that they will be shunned for to save the people that will shun them.

But I guess in the defense of the shunners, they are defending them from other mutants with special powers. It’s a never-ending cycle.

I related to them. I couldn’t walk through walls or read minds but I thought I was special but that no one had discovered it yet. That my talents were hidden. Even from me.

Her son was younger and odd. I never gave him much of a chance. But I tolerated him so that I could get free comic books. Later, I tolerated him so I could have excuses to come over and fuck his mom.

I guess this all begs the question: why would I ever want to remember any of this?