I pay for the coffee with cash, apparently an infrequent occurrence as the cashier fumbles in the till for small change. It seems to be taking a long time.
‘Forget about it,’ I said quickly, waving my hand in a gesture of dismissal then went out the door.
Outside I stopped, ashamed of myself, realising I must have sounded brusque, imperious. That was not me. I had spent my student years as a waitress and knew the slight of customers treating me like a servant.
I turned and went back in to apologise to her.
‘Forget about it.’ she said, waving her hand as I had waved mine, and then smiled.
Back on the pavement I paused, thinking about that exchange, focused on what we had each said.
Forget about it.
I stood there, momentarily unable to move. I thought of that phrase and knew it was often not possible. Not today.
The pain of it, so sharp that I admit wanting to forget it, trying to forget it then realising that I could not forget it. Her.
This was not about the change. Today is an anniversary of something I cannot forget.
I have accepted that nothing is ever truly forgotten. It has taken decades to realise this.
Many years ago my mother had tried to soothe me, ‘There, there,’ she said as I shuddered with sobs after the five stitches in my knee. ‘You’ll soon forget all about it,’ her voice was reassuring but decades later the scar and traumatic memory remain. A small thing but one not forgotten.
I have a lifetime of other memories: family, lovers, friends, successes/failures, highs/lows, all moments in time, each deposited and stored in my very own random-access memory.
***
I walk down the street where we used to live and stop in front of our old house. I let my hand rest on the gate, ready for it to swing open onto the path. In my mind’s eye it does open and the vision plays on. I walk up the path, hear my key turning in the lock and the happy noise of little feet running to hug me hello. I know with certainty if I open that door they will still be inside although in reality they are now big girls, women with children of their own, and inside our old house is a different family.
But today it is not them that I hear but another little girl, or I think I can, although in fact I never did. I heard only a rush of urgent activity then silence.
Many years have passed. Much has changed yet nothing has changed, that is the nature of grief; enduring, subterranean, potentially consuming,
To survive I had to forget about it but of course I never did, never will.
I speak to her often.
Today, her birthday, I remind her – I know she is listening.
You are not forgotten, but are in my heart, always.