I Remember

1. Day of incident

Sometimes I forget that I have lived twenty years of life. I do not feel as though I am made up any of the days I've existed within, for none of them belong to me. The day of my birth—day ten, first summer quartile, year six hundred seventeen—is someone else's to Remember. When my mother passed away—day twenty, third fall quartile, year six hundred twenty-three—the burden of her death was left to another.

Every day of my life, notable or mundane though it might have been, has been given to other people. I still have the memories, but they are like useless trinkets in my brain, strung with cobwebs and gathering dust. Some of them seem important, but the allure of cleaning them off is not worth the price of recollection. Considering the headache it gives me, I've found it best to leave them alone.

Instead, I stick to a day of my own: the second day in the second quartile of winter, year two hundred twenty-two. It rolls off the tongue quite pleasantly, and many of the accounts I keep are quite important. I did not have a choice in which day I would receive, but I am surely lucky to have it, for there are worse to Remember.

I often wonder how those who carry inexplicably ordinary days with them keep from boredom. Some have told me that twenty-four hours lived simply, unmarked by a great event, can be peaceful. Perhaps it is, but I can't imagine having so much and yet so little to carry about with me.

I don't know how I was chosen to Remember one of the most important days in the Half-Century War, but I am glad to have it. Within my mind are some of the greatest stories of victory, defeat, fear, and joy ever told. Emotions so strong that they can temporarily cripple cling to numerous accounts of death and joy alike, overcoming me no matter how often I access the memories.

Vaguely, I know Mom used to worry about how I would fare with such a weight pressed against my shoulders. Sometimes the burden is great, but I have never considered Remembering to be anything less than an honor. Ever since I was given a day at the age of twelve, it's been my pride and joy to do my duty.

And so I Remember for the Acyutan people, for the sake of those who were, who are, and who are yet to come. All of the people who lived and breathed on my day have a place within my mind, stored there so that I may be accountable for their experiences. I was not alive for Lana Jean Rheinhardt and her fatal mission as a spy against the enemy, Moore Lee Davidson's triumph in a duel, nor the tearful reunion of brothers Silvus Drey and Calfus Thone Malth, and yet each of these events are my own. I Remember them in infallible clarity, feeling and seeing everything through the eyes of the beholder. In a way, I am each of these people, if only for this one day.

For as real and vivid as Remembering is, it's hard not to get swept up in it. I was chosen to Remember for the strength of my mind, but even I find it difficult to remind myself that all these memories are not my own. Rather, I am a temporary vessel, one of many throughout the long years, set upon the task of carrying. At the end of my life, my successor will be tasked with Remembering this winter day of so many two's, and the memories will cease to be with me.

And then, when the time comes, my death—just like my mom's—will be a day given to another.

Maybe it's because I Remember a war that death is so often on my mind. Memories can rub off on a person if they're not careful, and I do spend a lot of time dipping into the flavor of the past, both for the research and curiosity of others and on my own time. I need to Remember often to keep the memories fresh, yes, but also tend to come upon me like a tidal wave in a storm.

There are many good things for me to Remember, stories big and small that speak of courage and wonder and triumph and everything in between. Unfortunately, regardless of how pleasant some memories are, there are plenty that are brutal and filled with death to match. "But what is death?" I find myself asking my personal musings aloud. I don't even notice I've spoken until Grey gives me an odd look.