Page 44 of Sin of Love
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When I was a little kid, I complained to my mom this one time about something my dad said, or did, or whatever. I was probably five or six. I’m sure he was mean because he said no when I asked him for some inane gift, like a helicopter or a crossbow. You know, as boys do.
This was one of my mom’s good years, when her medication was working, when she was eating right, going for walks, chatting with friends, smiling and hugging me… When my parents seemed happy and Dad was home at night and on the weekends.
Anyway, she told me something that day. Something that didn’t make sense then, but has stuck with me all these years because it was so odd and beautiful.
She said,
“Memories are magicians. Every time you look at them, they change a little. A tweak here, a smudge there, a new color or shape. Because of this, your best and worst memories, the ones you think of most often, have changed so many times they aren’t even memories anymore.
They’re fantasies.”
It took a long time for me to understand what the fuck she was talking about. Knowledge like that isn’t naturally occurring. You have to think, and suffer, and ask questions other people don’t ask, or simply don’t want to ask.
Like—
Does Deirdre want to be rescued?
and
Who do I love, if my memories of her are fantasies?
and
What am I willing to sacrifice in order to bring her home?
The last one, at least, is easy.
Everything
Everything
Everything.
journal of Gideon Masters
