A Store of Memories: Life Writing

A Store for Memories

When you walk into the store, everything turns quiet. No bells to announce your arrival and no voice to welcome you back, coming here has always been a silent errand. You tread into the familiar forbidden place with no valid excuse. You are the sole customer while also the owner. However, you don't buy nor do you sell. You don't dare to perhaps.

Your reasons for the visit are not your own. It is seeing a friend at the market and looking away so they don't recognize you. It is a peculiar building that somehow but not really resembles your school. It is your scheduled three in the morning reminder of every embarrassing moment you have ever experienced.

You think about all this as you stand in front of the corner of the store under the floating neon sign of "things you can't forget". You pick out one of the books at the right corner of the bottom shelf. A novel you wrote when you were ten. It is a story of slimy, grotesque monsters that like to eat children. You flip to the back to read comments from the readers:

" I'm not saying this is bad but that's exactly what I'm saying"- Dad

" it's creative, I guess" - sister that didn't bother to read it.

"What is wrong with this child?"- Mom who dropped after the first chapter.

You put it back and promise not to pick it up again. Pick up another one- a diary this time-titled, " It was a bad idea but in my defense I was an idiot". It is incomplete like all the other diaries and filled with fake sugar-coated memories because the real ones were too sour.

You reach for something else this time, something metal. It is a medal you got four years ago at school for 'excellence' in vocal music. You don't understand the significance of the piece of metal and would've preferred money instead. It reminds you of all the times you beat yourself up in competitions and performances. Yet it also reminds you of how easy it was to leave class and escape into the music room.

You pick up a photograph this time. You are awkward in your braces standing next to friends at the school fair. Barely able to keep your eyes open in the sun but not forgetting to smile. You didn't realize how much you had taken school for granted until you didn't go there anymore. You didn't realize how much you took your friends for granted until you couldn't see them everyday anymore. It is only when this normalcy trips on its own feet, that you remember how its shoelaces were always untied.

You settle on something different, the hard old cell phone feels foreign in your hands. Your first phone with buttons congested into the small space where you had to press 1 four times consistently to go from a to d. When calling someone up was easier because texting was too much work. You recall that you have made and deleted your Instagram account thrice in six months. You made a fourth one last week. You have only 13 followers and have still not put up a profile photo.

You sift out a report card next. A string of A's and some not. It leaves a papercut every time you look at it.

Everything in this store you cherish or at least you tell yourself you do. Except for this corner, this corner makes your stomach turn. Overwhelmed with nauseous inadequacy. Nineteen years and this is all you have to show for it. You don't write anymore. You don't sing anymore. You haven't talked to those friends except texting them sometimes. And you have never written a diary honestly because the idea of putting real feelings to paper is terrifying. You used to find yourself in the small details you can no longer grab onto.

You take a step back, overwhelmed with the weight of the memories. They are heavier every time you come here. Nostalgia is a cocktail of emotions, you don't hate or like them yet it is always difficult to swallow. You put them back on the shelf where they belong. Turn around and walk out the store. You will return again until these too get shoved into the back of the store where no one can find them.