The Astonishing Color of After

by Emily X.R. Pan

The more I think about it, the more that believing seems like the ultimate definition of family.

“We’re not lost,” Axel said finally. “We’re just headed somewhere different.”

We try so hard to make these little time capsules. Memories strung up just so, like holiday lights, casting the perfect glow in the perfect tones. But that picking and choosing what to look at, what to put on display—that’s not the true nature of remembering. Memory is a mean thing, slicing at you from the harshest angles, dipping your consciousness into the wrong colors again and again.

Everything fades. Everything in the physical world, like paper and furniture, but also things in the mind. Memories, emotions. Life. Friendships. Those fade, too. It’s just a matter of time.

I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You’ll know it by the row of stars Around its forehead bound.

A daddy longlegs. Those are, like, the teacup wiener dogs of the arachnid family.

“It’s okay to be afraid. But not okay if be afraid means you do nothing. You must not do nothing. That’s not life worth living.”

Believing is a type of magic. It can make something true.

‘Once you figure out what matters, you’ll figure out how to be brave.’

What is memory? It’s not something you can physically hold, or see, or smell, or taste. It’s just nerve impulses jumping between neurons. Sometimes it’s a matter of choice. Other times it’s self-preservation, or protection.

Memories that tell a story, if you look hard enough. Because the purpose of memory, I would argue, is to remind us how to live.