The Memory Police

by Yōko Ogawa

No matter how careful we are, we all leave behind little bits of ourselves as we go about our lives.

If it goes on like this and we can’t compensate for the things that get lost, the island will soon be nothing but absences and holes, and when it’s completely hollowed out, we’ll all disappear without a trace. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“It’s true, I know, that there are more gaps in the island than there used to be. When I was a child, the whole place seemed…how can I put this?…a lot fuller, a lot more real. But as things got thinner, more full of holes, our hearts got thinner, too, diluted somehow. I suppose that kept things in balance. And even when that balance begins to collapse, something remains. Which is why you shouldn’t worry.”

“I’d imagine you’d be uncomfortable, with your heart full of so many forgotten things.” “No, that’s not really a problem. A heart has no shape, no limits. That’s why you can put almost any kind of thing in it, why it can hold so much. It’s much like your memory, in that sense.”

“My memories don’t feel as though they’ve been pulled up by the root. Even if they fade, something remains. Like tiny seeds that might germinate again if the rain falls. And even if a memory disappears completely, the heart retains something. A slight tremor or pain, some bit of joy, a tear.”

“It’s their photographs that will disappear, not my mother and father,” I said. “I’ll never forget their faces.” “They may be nothing more than scraps of paper, but they capture something profound. Light and wind and air, the tenderness or joy of the photographer, the bashfulness or pleasure of the subject. You have to guard these things forever in your heart. That’s why photographs are taken in the first place.”

“But where do you think they were going? You can’t see anything beyond the horizon,” I said, pointing out at the sea. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s a place out there where people whose hearts aren’t empty can go on living.”

“I remember hearing a saying long ago: ‘Men who start by burning books end by burning other men,’ ” I said.

“I know, but I worry that the earthquake changed everything too suddenly, that it was too shocking.” “No, the truth is that I was dying under that rubble and you saved me. There was nothing to be shocked about. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you’ve done, and I’m not watching the boat out of nostalgia, but to remind myself how lucky I am.”

“I wonder whether the story will remain after I disappear.” “Of course it will. Each word you wrote will continue to exist as a memory, here in my heart, which will not disappear. You can be sure of that.”