Sunday, September 24, 2006
What is it?
I dunno. You can decide. I don't really care.
I went to Michele's party on Friday and we played a rousing game of "Manhunt", which is basically hide-and-go-seek outside when it's dark. We were all given lightsticks for safety, so most people hid them to prevent them from being seen.
One of the girls from our cast looked cold, so I gave her my sweatshirt. A couple of minutes later, her lightstick broke, and she spilled a little on the sweatshirt.
The game itself was fun. Everyone seemed to be convinced that there was someone stalking us from a bush because someone saw it glow. I, cynical as ever, was convinced everyone was an idiot, so I began walking over to the bush.
A couple of people started yelling, and someone ran over to me and hit me.
We dodged around the whole area in the course of an hour, diving behind dumsters, climbing trees, crouching behind cars.
The point was I enjoyed myself immensely that evening. It was a cloudy, pitch-black night, and twelve kids were running all over a neighborhood, attempting not to be seen.
On the ride home, I had my sweatshirt on my lap, and the little spot of lighstick chemicals was winking quietly up at me.
I swear, that little spot made me picture the whole evening perfectly, and made me remember everything about it. How much fun it was.
My sweatshirt got put through the washer, and now it isn't there. That innocent spot is simply gone, dissapeared. It seems I have nothing to remind me of the night.
Memories have a habit of doing this. They are there for the longest time, and then they seem to detiorate, as if your brain is washing them away. You try to hold on, but your brain seems bent on cleaning that memory out.
And it does.
And you forget.
But you should really try to remember, though.
That little spot of glowing light.
On your sweatshirt.