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There are times I wish I could forget.

But I can’t.

And there isn’t a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser that can save me. No break long enough from writing. No scoop of chocolate chip mint ice cream or length of walk around my little village that can cure me.

That smile. Those eyes. That song. That boy. All of it. It’s seared into my brain. Like a letter I keep sending to myself. Travelling in circles.
I remember because I can. My gift? Debatable. I recall bizarre events and useless information. My first day of school. Conversation from grade four. Speech topics my classmates delivered in grade nine. What song was playing when my ex-boyfriend broke his nose during a basketball game in grade eleven. Who retains this information? I should defrag the files, but I can’t. Time will do that, I’m sure.

One day, I will forget. And everything will be erased. Like Allie in The Notebook.

Will a story bring me back? Will I want to remember? Or would I rather forget a lifetime of information?

Such as that song. The one which drags me to the time I fell. The smell of that cologne. That pre-autumn night. The sound of tires slowing down and crunching on my gravel driveway.
And the boy at the table. In a blue shirt. With those wicked eyes and captivating smile. Who danced with an awkward girl who wore an overly warm green shirt tunic top and cliché 90s red lipstick.

But the problem with some memories are the ones you regret. Because those stay with you forever.

Yeah. I remember.

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