By Chloe Hewitt

I can never remember things. But at the same time, I can. I’m not normal.

One time, when I was a toddler, I bit another kid in the church’s little group. He was being mean to a girl, and I had decided to take matters into my own hands. Rather, my own jaws. So, I bit him. Full force, no regrets. I got a yellow card. Bad behavior gets punished, of course. But the girl wasn’t bullied anymore. So, who cares about a yellow card?

My mom told me this story. I don’t remember it. I don’t remember the kids; I don’t remember biting the offender; and I don’t remember that church. But I do remember what it feels like to protect someone. It’s some primal instinct that makes me bare my teeth. It beats against my ribs and roars in my ears. Protection means action, no matter how small or big.

I had a friend in middle school that I met through our local co-op. Co-op is like extracurricular classes for homeschooled kids that drives home the “educational experience.” It was an experience all right. I miss it. Through all the seasons, there’s many classes you can take. I remember taking a few classes with her – sign language, and I can still recall a few words; piano, and I can still recall ivory and ebony; and Bible, and I can recall the clay cross necklace I got for memorizing five verses that flew out of my brain as soon as I held the necklace in my hand. It was a nice magenta color. I remember the girl, Allie, being my best friend. We did everything together. I protected her too. And she used me.

I remember how it felt when she hurt me, how it felt when I was cast aside and forgotten. I can still feel how my heart shattered into a million pieces, how long it took me to gather them, how long it took me to piece them back together and trust again, and how long it took me to make a friend again. I am still trying to remember what “friend” means. Sometimes I don’t feel anything when I hear the word friend. Most of the time I forget I exist in other people’s lives even when I’m not directly interacting with them.

I don’t remember Allie’s face. I don’t remember her laugh. But there are a few times when my chest hurts, and it takes me a while to trust.

I’ve gone through what all kids go through. The death of a relative. My great aunt was so kind, and so sweet, and I loved her so much, even though I showed it less than I should have. I remember playing card games with her. I remember prancing around her kitchen and waiting for a sweet treat to come out of the oven. I remember her frail, gentle beauty.

I remember her cream puffs. I haven’t eaten a good one since she died.

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I can’t remember her voice. I can’t remember it. I can see her face, but I can’t hear her words. And it drives a stake through my heart.

My great uncle, her husband, was patient, but stern, and he loved me. I know he did, even though I was a rascal and upset him more times than I can count. He allowed my siblings and me to look at his rock collection, all those shimmering geodes and arrowheads and stones from fantastical lands. He loved rocks. He played Aggravation with us, but I don’t remember what color of marbles he chose ... He loved Looney Tunes, and I remember his smile. I can’t not think of Bugs Bunny without seeing my great uncle’s smile.

I can’t hear his voice anymore. I don’t remember what it sounds like. I can see his weathered hands, tanned, wrinkled, and holding a carved cross or smoothing a carved verse he made. But I can’t remember him talking about it.

I miss him. I miss them both.

I can remember obscure facts about axolotls: they can regrow their limbs, their hearts, and even parts of their brain. That’s why they’re called the Phoenixes of the Sea! I can’t remember when to take out the garbage. Was it today or yesterday? Or is it supposed to be tomorrow ...? I remember most of the names of my family’s pets. All the cats, and the dogs, and the horses, and the cows, and the rabbits, and the chickens, and on, and on. I can’t remember the names of my childhood toys. Bandit? Bolt? What did I call this stuffed wolf when I played with my little brother?

Memory is so cruel, and it made me cruel to myself.

I said I was stupid, for not remembering the simple things.

I said I was an idiot, for not remembering what I was told.

I said I wanted to die, because I was not good enough and couldn’t be normal.

I hated myself. But now, years later, I forgot why I should hate myself in the first place.

I’m not stupid. I’m not an idiot. And I want to live.

I might not remember everything; I might not even remember the important things. But I think, and I want to learn, and I want to remember. I want to be.

Isn’t that good enough?