If I ever lost my memory I don’t think the first person I’d call is a doctor. I think I would call my best friend, because I have this feeling she would know exactly where to begin. She wouldn’t sit me down and tell me my birthday or where I grew up. She’d tell me stories.
The kind that don’t sound important until you realize they are the reason you became who you are. She’d remind me about the version of me that laughed before life got serious. The version of me that trusted people a little easier. The version that believed impossible things without needing proof.
She’d tell me about the dreams I almost talked myself out of and the people I loved too hard.
She’d tell me about the moments that quietly changed me long before I realized they had.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that I don’t think I’d remember my life. I think I’d remember myself.
And maybe that’s what a best friend really is.
Not someone who memorizes your favorite color or the ideal amount of sugar to put in your coffee, though that is kind. It’s the person who’s been paying attention why you were busy becoming. They’re the one who notices when your laugh changes or when your light gets a little quieter. When you stop recognizing the person staring back at you in the mirror, they still see you. The one who cheers for you when you have no voice and on the darkest of days they are the lighthouse that helps you find your way.
The strange thing about life is that we spend years collecting memories without realizing the people we love are collecting versions of us and the little pieces we don’t even notice we’re leaving behind.
And maybe that’s why I never should worry about forgetting where I’ve been or who I am or the many pieces of me.
Because somewhere in this world there is someone who could sit across from me for hours and tell me my own story so gently that I’d find my way back to myself before I ever remembered my own name.
KM