There’s a point in every conversation where someone brings up a memory like it’s a well-trained dog, expecting it to sit and stay. I had one of those moments the other day, sitting on a sagging couch with coffee that had gone cold, and someone asked about my high school years. I reached back, hoping for a neatly cut slice of life, but instead, I got a full buffet of interruptions.
See, memory is not a docile creature. It’s more like a cat, winding around your ankles when you least expect it, darting off in directions you hadn’t planned to go. The conversation was supposed to be about marching bands and awkward dances, but instead, it took a sharp left into the territory of my first heartbreak. There it was, anger and tenderness braiding themselves together like a poorly knit scarf.
I found myself laughing at the absurdity of it all. Laughing doesn’t cancel out the grief; it simply pulls up a chair and joins it at the table. Like the time I put on my Sunday best to impress a crush, only to step in a puddle and spend the day squelching around. The humor doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the squelching bearable.
It’s tempting to want to shape these memories into something neat and tidy, but that feels like trying to make a bed with a fitted sheet that’s one size too small. In my experience, trying to force a memory into a linear narrative is like trying to herd cats. It doesn’t work, and you end up with more scratches than stories.
So, I let the interruptions do their thing. Respect how truth actually works. Because sometimes, the most honest stories are the ones that wander.