The Persistence of Memories

I see him before he sees me. I haven't left the building yet, he's on his way in. This isn't where I thought I'd see him. Honestly, I didn't think I would ever see him anywhere again. My breath catches, but I keep my cool.As we both traverse the sidewalk, our eyes meet and a million memories flash.

Us in my childhood bedroom, legs hanging off the edge, too big for my bed. My hands on his skin, sunscreen on his back in the heat of summer. Pages of a book blowing in the wind, a bright blanket on grass, my head in his jean-clad lap. A bouquet of flowers I refuse to throw out wilting on my countertop. Fingers intertwined, hands swinging as we walk through the rainbow lights of a carnival. A necklace with his initial resting on my bare chest. An extra toothbrush in a cup in his bathroom. Hand-written letters filling a shoebox, handwriting borderline unreadable. Rainy days in, no electricity, thunder cocooning, candles flickering. Sweat soaking through clothes as we jump around at a concert. Polaroids hung on the fridge with plastic magnets, some in his underwear drawer, not to be seen. Lips on lips, anywhere and everywhere. Hands in a white-knuckle grip on a plane, soothing words whispered.

We're getting closer. I can almost make out the mossy color of his eyes now. The world is quiet around me, my breath is shallow. An ache inside me lingers, longing and sadness intermingled. A grieving of sorts.

Crying. Yelling. Missed phone calls. An oak casket. Holding me through a panic attack. A broken glass across laminate floor. Both in bed sick, tissues and mouthwash. Losing his job. Unpaid bills. Hamburger helper. New place, new problems. His mother hates me. Flooded apartment, ruined mementos. Morning nausea. Six tests, fifteen minutes. Working through finances, visiting family, sleeping facing the wall. Hands on a bump. Blood in the toilet. A heartbreaking doctor's appointment. A breakdown. A breakup. Cardboard boxes full of my things in the back of my car. The smell of bleach. Late nights crawling back to his place. Sneaking out to the sound of his snores. The sound of screeching brakes. Morning regret. Lunches with strained conversation. Trying again. Failing again. Years of silence.

Never did I think that I would see him again here. Walking with our respective partners in and out of the OBGYN. Lives moving on without one another, bringing new lives into the world without one another. Doing without each other what we couldn't do with, what we tried to do, what we begged for. He smiles softly, like maybe I'm just a stranger he's made eye contact with. Or maybe it's a knowing smile. Maybe all the memories I hold, he holds, too. Maybe I passed them to him, floated them through the air. The good, the bad, us in a supercut. We pass each other. My husband grabs my hand squeezing tight, brushing against the ring that occupies space there. He's holding our sonogram photos in the other hand. I don't even glance back.