I remember the photo I should’ve taken–two teenage girls in plaid skirts chatting and leaning on a police barricade as if it was no big deal.
I remember the bizarrely empty 2am bus.
I remember not expecting forgiveness. I remember not being forgiven.
I remember sitting with her on the back patio, hating every single sound she spoke and every single fidget she made.
I remember the sleeve of stale saltines.
I remember smiling at my phone throughout the day, wishing I were smiling at him instead.
I remember the plane accelerating, rumbling under my feet.
I remember telling her she didn’t need to iron my pajama shirts, yet she did it anyway.
I remember asking him to pay half for Plan B.
I remember the challah and the grape juice.
I remember how she was finally relieved of pain right before her lethal injection.
I remember him telling me I didn’t have opinions.
I remember stretching my hand across the fretboard to make the chords. I remember giving up not long afterwards.
I remember hearing him sneeze for the first time and how it threw me off-guard.
I remember the hydrangea bush in the backyard, a source for many pretend-wedding bouquets.
I remember crossing the finish line and immediately checking the time: I beat my record.