I don't remember why she wouldn't get up. I think it was the first time I saw her cry but I don't remember why. I don't remember what time of year it was, but she was probably a few months in. But looking back I realize the pain of death.
I don't remember but neither does she. And its frustrating to me that she doesn't hold these memories for me when I couldn't. I guess it wasn't such a joyous time as my own mind recalls. It must have been terribly lonely and weathering to raise me but she doesn't remember.
I don't remember what he looked like. I don't remember what he said. He does, though. He remembers what I wore, what I said, what I acted like. He thinks it was pivotal but I don't remember. It wasn't important to me then. I am glad I don't remember because they pain would follow. I'd rather not remember but everytime he brings it up it pieces the story together in my mind. I guess I have learned my lesson never to be myself, never to let loose in a new crowd because you just dont know whose watching. Too bad I didn't remember that piece of advice that night.
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