the curse of good memory

I don't forget things easily. In fact, I don't think I forget things at all. 

Sometimes I wish I could, like when I remember my first boyfriend, my first obsession. I can't even call it my first love. His dark hair, tan skin, the way his lips curved into a smile, our first kiss. I wish these were the only things I thought about and not the night in my car when he lifted my skirt and his greedy fingers tried to reach inside me. 

"You'll love it."

I cried, and he apologized. But it didn't mean anything. 

I wish I could forget when my mother and I looked through the old family photo albums. I pointed out a picture of my younger brother being held by my late grandfather. It was my little brother's first birthday. My mother said everyone was so excited when he was born as she recalled the memory. Everyone was so happy.

I asked her, "What about me? What about when I was born?"

She just shook her head. "It wasn't the same. He was the first boy."

And I was just a girl. 

I wish I could forget when my father and I fought. For years, he had been pestering me about picking basketball up again. And at the time, he wanted me to play college basketball. He told me I still had a chance to walk on a team at the local college. I finally told him I didn't want to play basketball, that the sport was what he wanted. 

"Maybe I wanted at least one of my kids to be something."

There are many things I wish I could forget. 

Memory is a funny thing. I have no idea what my younger sister's favorite color is now, but I can still remember that it used to be purple. 

I don't remember anything about being born, my first steps, my first words. but I remember my younger sister. The first memory I can recall was the day she was born. 

The neighbor with the blonde hair had to take me there to meet with our parents. Because I remember the way the light touched the staircase from the window above our front door, I know it was early in the morning. I needed help zipping up my jacket; it was the beginning of February. 

I held the neighbor's hand when we got out of the car and as we walked through the parking lot. The lights in the hospital were not like the ones at home. They were cold, blue, sterile. But even so, when I entered my mother's room, it was warm. 

I sat on a bench by the window. My dad sat next to me as he gently placed my younger sister in my arms. She was so heavy. My arms were soon hurting, but I didn't say anything. They had been telling me for a while that I was going to have a little sister, that I was going to be a big sister. And I didn't want to let them down.

I didn't want to let her down.

But of course, it wasn't very long before she started crying. She wailed in my arms until my father collected her and took her to my mother. 

Before I am anything else, I am an older sister.

When my younger sister first started speaking, one of her first words was Cina (Kee-na), a poor attempt at saying my name. At the time, it drove me nuts. I would tell her and our mother that Cina was not my name, that it wasn't even close. My mom thought it was cute. 

I've never gotten another nickname. My name is too short, too simple to warrant one. 

But my little sister had given me one. 

The other day, I recalled the memory to her, asking her if she remembered calling me Cina. And of course, she didn't. But neither did my mother. 

I remember that my little brother's favorite movie used to be Ratatouille. Or at least, he used to like it a lot. I remember a long time ago, before we lost the yellow house, the two of us would watch that movie in the basement. We'd only go into the basement together; we were just kids and going downstairs alone was terrifying. 

There's this one scene, near the beginning of the movie, where Remy and Emile sit on a rooftop cooking a mushroom. As they cook the mushroom, lightning strikes the two brothers, showing a frame of the two rats' skeletons, their fur spiking out every which way from the electricity. My little brother and I thought this scene was so funny.

On that particular day, as we watched the movie in the basement of the yellow house, he held the remote in his hands, jumping up and down as he replayed that scene over and over again. The two of us laughed right next to each other until our stomachs hurt. I don't even think we finished the movie that day. 

Recently, I recalled the memory as we watched the movie together for the first time in many years. I was sitting on the couch, while my little brother watched from the dining room table. I asked him if he remembered how this movie used to be his favorite, telling him about the day we replayed that one scene over and over again. 

And he said he didn't remember. Well, what he actually said was, "That never happened," and I told him he must have forgotten. 

But when he said it, he said it with such conviction, for a second, I thought I must have made the memory up. I know I didn't. I know I couldn't have because I can see everything so clearly in my head. I can see the TV on the wall, and the movie on the screen. I can see the stereo on the right side of the wall, sitting on the half-finished shelves my father had put up. I can see my little brother in front of me, in front of the TV, jumping up and down as he rewinded the scene to play it over and over and over again. 

I can feel the pain in my stomach as I lay on the couch, laughing.

I can hear his laugh, back when his voice was still that of a boy and not of a man.

When he told me he didn't remember, it was like a punch in the gut; it hurt. It hurts in the way it does every time someone cannot remember the things I cannot forget. Like it wasn't worth remembering. Like it didn't matter to them in the same way it mattered to me. 

I know I couldn't have made this up. My memory is too sharp. 

But then again, maybe it's not as sharp as I think it is; I can't remember the last time I hugged my little brother.

And I can't remember the last time I told him I loved him.