Prompt #19 ~~ 01/24/21

Today’s prompt: Begin your writing with the phrase: “I remember…” Or, alternately: “I want to remember…” Or, shift back and forth between: “I want to remember” and “I need to forget…”

Just begin, and let the writing guide you. 

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Memories.

Man, is that a loaded word. Today is five months since Cooper died by suicide. The memories–good, bad, and imagined–are very present today.

I want to remember the good. I want to remember the surprise when Cooper’s shiny bald toddler head started to fill in with curiously red hair. I smile now, thinking about the phrase “strawberry blonde.” There was nothing strawberry blonde about that hair. I want to remember the early April day of Logan’s birthday party and the stubborn spots of dirt that would not wash off Cooper’s little face. Those “little spots of dirt” ended up covering his face, arms, and legs–anything that saw the sun. By the time he was an adult, the freckles seemed to merge in the summers, giving the illusion of a tan. I want to remember that ornery little boy who scampered up a ladder, prompting his big brother to follow. That was the beginning of Logan trying to keep Cooper out of trouble. I even want to remember the stubbornness and the temper, although at the time I sure didn’t enjoy either one.

I want to remember underage Cooper telling me he’d be spending the night at Drew’s cabin. Yes, there’d be drinking at this party. No, he wouldn’t drive home. Stubborn and ornery, but not stupid. I want to remember that combination of traits and our peculiar version of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. I want to remember how fiercely he’d defend against anyone else the same siblings he gleefully tormented.

I want to remember his pride and elation at having finished college with a degree that mattered to him. I want to remember my own pride-swollen heart, knowing that he’d done college on his own terms and in his own time, just as I had several years earlier. I want to remember his commitment to the environment, to nature, to being a good steward of this planet. I want to remember his passion for the things that actually matter and his distaste for the material trappings of the world.

I want to remember last summer’s long talks and evening rides, but I wish I could forget why we went, what we discussed.

I wish I could forget the times his ideas came faster than he could speak, more jumbled than I could decipher. I wish I could forget the times, tangled in cruel tricks of his mind, he called me the name of another, but I hope to always remember the long hug he gave me when he knew he had to drive away.

I wish I could forget the fear and panic of the 10 days he was gone, the days we didn’t know where he was or if he was alive. I wish he could’ve forgotten what he experienced in those 10 days.

I wish I could forget the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I came home that Monday afternoon and Cooper’s car was gone. I wish I could forget the sound of the coroner’s sharp rap on the back door, his questions and words, his apology and concern. I wish I couldn’t run that conversation on a loop in my mind. I wish I could forget the screams and cries and protestations as I made phone calls that afternoon.

I want to remember his kindnesses of that last day. I want to remember that he did what he did in the gentlest way he knew–he was not at home, he was not in public, he didn’t physically hurt anyone else, and he called 911 so he would be found.

I wish I could abolish from my mind the imagined memories, the memories extrapolated from facts. The memories that try to fill in the gaps. Those memories are limitless, both in number and in severity. My imagination has no restraint.

I want to remember the love and friendship. I want to remember the hundreds of people–family, friends, teachers, professors, coworkers– who made the drive to the farm, waited in line in sweltering heat, cried with us, and shared stories of Cooper. I want to remember the perfect fit of that little red head tucked under my chin and the bear hugs of my gentle giant, my head tucked under his chin. I want to remember the best shit-eating grin I’ll ever see and the feel of his fingertips folding over mine as we compared hand sizes.

I want to remember the love. I want to remember the life. I wish I could forget the worst days, the days when he wasn’t himself. The day when he was no more. Right now, five months into this existence, the good memories haven’t managed to suppress the bad. The good are fighting for their fair share of my mind, but the bad are so overwhelming, so bad, that my memories are waging war. Eventually, I’m told, the good will win. I pray it’s soon.