Say You'll Remember Me

by Abby Jimenez

“You don’t drink?” I asked, leaning on the bar. “No.” “Why? Are you sober?” “I don’t like the feeling of being out of control. Also, I’m driving you.” Okay. I liked that.

It was that moment in the Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice where she rolls up to Mr. Darcy’s estate and it’s this enormous mansion and she’s like, OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

I’d taken recognition for granted my whole life. The way it lights someone up, how it can speak to you without a word across a crowded room. That split second of raw reaction when you’re seen and known. Relief, joy, happiness at locking eyes with someone you were looking for or seeing someone you didn’t expect.

It’s ironic how important things make the world smaller. How a kiss with someone you love can make you feel like you’re alone with them, like you’re in a snow globe with just the two of you when really you’re outside baggage claim at a busy international airport.

“Because if you were my wife you would be my world. Everything starts with you and ends with you. Anything else is just the stuff that happens in the middle.”

You think that it’s the big memories you should be chasing—and it is in a way. Birthdays and vacations and special occasions. But the small memories are the fabric of your life, the ones so inconsequential that you don’t even remember them. You just remember how you felt when you were making them.