memory perspective

She has a memory composed of snapshots.  There is a snapshot of Michael, the first boy she ever liked. She was in kindergarten and he was a few grades older and when she looked up at him the word that came to mind was "angel".
There is a snapshot of that night, during the storm, with the wind shrieking and the tea kettle whistling when she realized that that Barry Manilow song didn't make her sad anymore.
There's even a snapshot of that time she and her best friend were playing under the beating sun in the parking lot of a car dealership, pretending they had imaginary pets on imaginary leashes.  Hers was a leopard.

This type of memory came in handy for remembering grocery lists, pages of textbooks, and phone numbers.  But it could be painstaking.  Having a snapshot, clear and detailed, of every boy that had ever hurt you.  Captured in the sunlight, always, with an unassuming smile.  He hadn't know then that he'd break your heart.  How could he have?

Going through these snapshots was bittersweet.  It reminded her of that time she was really sick with fever and aches and chills, and that Disney Pixar movie was on.  A few months later it was on again, and this time the experience of watching it was so different she almost laughed; watching a movie while you're sick and sad versus happy and healthy.  It was all a matter of perspective.


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