I can forget my own name before forgetting that day.

statue

There was Central Square and that little Indian eatery which slapped South-Asian victuals onto metal trays. There was also the parking lot that opened its automated-gateway at exactly 18:00:00. In fact, as the memories are still too fresh, I recall the thirty minute walk on Mass Ave and Vassar Street, past the new MIT dormitories to the Hyatt on Memorial Drive. Of course, if details are ever consequential I will have to remember the important ones. Ones like walking in Harvard Square. Or resting in the park in the middle of one of the hottest days of summer.

There was also walking beneath a black umbrella that evening of Ellen’s Birthday in the Theatre District on our way to Teatro –which by the way, serves excellent Italian food. But beyond the ricotta and mozzarella-filled pasta, the pork, and the tall pristine glasses of l’eau was a being which memory always struggles to capture. I can never remember every follicle or line in the skin, or stroke of the lashes. I can never remember every word. But beyond all of this, I do remember sincerity. I remember joy emanating from this individual. I remember laughing and feeling depth as we swam in conversation.

I will remember Monday and putting things into boxes. I will remember telling him to “say goodbye apartment, goodbye neighbour, goodbye Athens Street” and “it’s okay to be sad.” I will remember Scituate. But the sweetest memory that I have ever lived was standing outside of security at Gate E. I remember him hugging his mother. I can still hear the sound of the busy airport, and the numerous carry-ons rolling around. The guard made eye-contact with me and I wondered if he could see the pain on my face. As soon as I turned around he rushed to me. And that memory is one only he and I and God will ever know.

I have a book of memories. But the truth is I am certain I have not written everything down. The perfectionist mind is imperfect by virtue of its perfectionism. The book has lengths of details and numerous accounts. But I realize over the years I may forget the details and become dependent on this book. I realize one day the book might be lost. I realize that one day I might get old and might forget most of it.

But that’s okay. It’s okay if I forget the details of our trip to Plum Island and playing Frisbee in the sand, or our hike on Mount Royal, or the tadpoles. These kinds of things are worldly. These memories are meant to remain on earth. One thing I know to be true is what is beyond the shapes and colours and movements. I know him from the way he speaks to me and not his voice. I know him from the manner in which he treats me –his courteousness and not his opening doors for me – his sincerity and not his apology, his joy and not his laughter. I know and will remember the absolute.

He is in Bangalore for twelve months and I am gloomy. But sadness is only analogous to physical distance. And fortunately, I can live with that.

“When we find truth, constancy, fidelity, and love, we are happy…” –Abdu’l-Baha