One may never evade a memory. Like a mosquito haunting the bedroom at night, it is invisible and at the same time shares with us its poison heart. At the age of 29, Jamie can slip into his memory of himself as a child as easily as he slides beneath the duvet. He takes a moment to recall the day he landed in New Zealand. "I was 26." He remarks to a friend. She's drinking cheap merlot; he, coffee. "But 26 feels like a separate me." She agrees and reminds him how strange it is to think of being 18.
"You can visit your memories and be there again. And then, in a flash, be back to now. We do not so much get older," she says, "as we merely get farther."
Jamie finishes his coffee and turns his attention to the band. While he agrees with her philosophy on time and aging, all he can think of is how he wishes he had learned to play the guitar.
2 comments:
"What's a duvet?"
"It's a--a comforter . . ."
"It's a blanket."
Post a Comment