Memories and Moments
Let the moment go, don't forget it for a moment though.
Sometimes I think about the people who briefly came into my life and wonder if they remember me, or if I ever pop into their head the way they pop into mine. People who probably would never remember my name, if they ever knew it in the first place, but who have embedded themselves into core memories of mine. If the moments that were moments for me were for them, or just an ordinary moment.
Does the magician/clown who performed at my 5th birthday remember the terror in my eyes when he handed me his wand and it fell apart in my hands? Does he remember how I didn't laugh at all and just grew more and more upset every time he "fixed" it and gave it back to me and it fell apart again? Did he leave that day thinking, "That did not go well," or did he not even register my horror because everyone else in the room was laughing? Did I plaster a smile on my face convincing enough to make him think it was fine? Was it just another birthday party to him, and probably other parties went much worse so I never crossed his mind again? Because he occasionally crosses mine.
Does my old babysitter remember how excited I got when she told me she wanted to play my Barbie designer computer game with me, because most babysitters knew they could leave me to my own devices and I'd be fine? Does she remember how she asked me for a hug at our next school-wide function and I bristled with pride as she left and my friends buzzed around me asking me how I knew an eighth grader. Did she look me up all these years later and realize we both ended up being queer and wonder if somehow, deep down, that is why we connected way back then? Because I do.
Do the kids *I* babysat remember me? Do the sisters I watched remember how I helped them with their homework? Does the little boy I babysat remember the game we made up that his mother told he played for months after they moved away? Did they ever think back and figure out that probably I was fibbing when they asked to watch Calliou or Yo Gabba Gabba and I told them their smart TV with a very full DVR only had Wonderpets, The Backyardigans, or Little Einsteins? Do those brothers even remember their New York apartment, where the littlest slept in a bassinet in the en suite bathroom? Did anyone ever tell the oldest that I would lie on the floor next to his crib until he fell asleep and army crawl out of the room so he didn't wake up? Because I tell people that story sometimes.
Does my cousin's friend remember the girl he told wasn't pretty enough to be an actress, which is what her 13-year-old heart wanted more than anything. Does he remember saying maybe she could be the best friend of the main character, but not the lead? Does he remember saying I might be pretty if I didn't have such thick thighs? I don't remember his name or his face, but I remember his words. I doubt he does.
Do any of the kids I met while I was student teaching ever think of Miss Valerie, or have a distant memory of the classroom helper they had for a few months when they were in Kindergarten? Do they remember how I helped them zip their coats, held their hands, pushed them on the swings? Does the little girl I worked with for my grad school project remember that she used to have to go to NYU once a week for a few months where a random lady helped her learn how to read? Does Justin remember he got yelled at less on the days I was in the classroom, because unlike the other adults, I didn't write him off for being "bad" and was able to cut off mood swings at the pass by listening to him, or putting a hand on his back to help regulate him during storytime? Does Talia remember when her dad came in to be the Mystery Reader, her first instinct was to burst into tears and hug him, and her second instinct was to run to me? Does Juan remember his first bloody nose when he panicked and cried and then when I said we should go to the nurse he cried even harder so I went into Helper Mode and got him cleaned up and calm before recess was over? These feel even less likely, I was in their lives so briefly, but I do think of them and wonder what kind of people they grew into.
Does the girl I met on a late-night train remember how we met trying to parse out the complicated train switch notices because our phones were both dead? Does she remember sharing a beer on the platform, and the boy on the next train who said it was going uptown as we hopped on? Does she remember how he asked us how we knew each other and we said we just met on the platform, and he was shocked because he thought we were friends? Does she remember how the train was in fact not an uptown train, and the three of us had to scramble off at the next stop? Did that night feel as magical to her as it did to me? Does she ever see strangers passing in Astoria and wonder if it's me? Because sometimes I wonder if I see her.
Does the woman I met because her name is also Valerie remember how we danced to the Amy Winehouse song together? Does she--actually, I feel pretty sure she probably doesn't remember the rest of that night. She probably doesn't remember how I saw her bouncing from group to group and asked the bartender where her friends were, and she said they left, that Other Valerie was there alone. She probably doesn't remember that I wouldn't let her go home with some random man who looked a lot less drunk than she was. She probably doesn't remember me walking her around the corner and lighting her cigarette for her while we waited for the Uber I helped her call and eventually get into. But I remember her, and sometimes it drives me a little crazy that I have no way of knowing if she got home okay.
What about the girl I met when I was sitting on a bench just outside Central Park? Does she remember what had made her so harried when she asked me if she could borrow the external phone charger I was using? Does she remember the string of coincidences we learned while we chatted - she went to the same school as I did, lived in my old neighborhood, was on her way to see the musical I had just seen the week before? Does she remember the man who played the flute and then shoved it up his pant leg before walking away? Did she think of that moment on hard days, and about how sometimes the city can be as kind as it is cruel? Because I think of her sometimes, and of the butterfly with the torn wing that landed on me briefly while we talked before flying away, seeming to represent the moment perfectly.
I know it's unlikely I linger in any of these people's memories the way they linger in mine. They were just moments. But I bet I'm in other people's moments, moments I don't remember. And that's okay. Like the great Sondheim once implied, moments are just that: moments. They can't be everything to everyone. And they can’t be everything, full stop. After all:
Oh, if life were made of moments,
Even now and then a bad one.
But if life were only moments
Then you'd never know you had one.