Some Memories Are Best Forgotten

Some memories are best forgotten. But how do you forget something impossible to forget? An experience which consumes your every waking moment with white hot pain. Your sleep is not a black relief, but an immersion into a repeated horror of an event you cannot forget. This is my life.

My life is filled with grief for a lost child. No, that’s not true. She is not lost. I know where she is. I visit her grave daily. Sometimes I rock with sorrow. I can run my fingers through imaginary fine hair, smelling the baby shampoo I used that morning. I experience it as a reality. Eventually my hand is just stroking empty air. I continue to rock. The energy of agony makes me move, but doesn’t let me run away. I’m tied to the spot by invisible chains.

My husband goes to work. Grief oppresses him, too. But, he says, we have to eat, pay the bills. He says we have to move on with our lives. That’s what he says, anyway. I know I’m frightening him.

The Earth revolves. Seasons change. Soon it is too cold for me to remain at the cemetery for more than a few hours. The winter deepens. One desperate day snow and howling winds close the roads and prevent me from going to be with her. My thoughts evolve from memories to questions.

Who had killed her? Why wouldn’t my husband tell me? He was a policeman after all, a detective. He said they wouldn’t let him be part of the investigation. That shouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t have stopped me. My mind quiets for a minute as I turn the idea over and over. It wouldn’t stop me.

I started with the police report. I begged until my husband finally in exasperation gave it to me. Just reading it threw me back into days of rocking on the floor in her room, holding and smelling her clothes from the hamper. I hadn’t washed them. I couldn’t wash them. With my face buried in pajamas, jumpers, bunny patterned shirts, her sweet smell made her real again.

In time my anger focused itself back on her killer, the driver of the vehicle that had struck her and kept ongoing. I don’t want to relive it again. But I do.

I’m digging in my purse for the keys. She was standing there, right beside me. Her tiny voice asked me for her animals. I always bought her animal crackers when we shopped at the grocery store. It was her reward for being good. I was feeling irritated by my ever increasing To-Do list. I was a bit harsh with my answer. Why did she walk out from between the parked cars? A flash of sunlight on her green jumper made me turn my head. She was there and then she was gone. She was replaced for only a second by a white vehicle. The vehicle might have been a pickup or a minivan or a SUV. I ran into the lane. I saw it driving away, but I didn’t see it either. My vision reduced to the horror of my little girl lying still on the concrete. Her limbs lay oddly arranged. I could see she was dead when I got to her. I sat in that very place and rocked her in my arms. “Yes, baby, you can have your animals. Just breathe for Mommy.” I screamed when they took her from my embrace. I think they must have sedated me. I remember little after that point. For months now, my only thoughts have been of her death. It ends and restarts immediately. There are no other memories.

I will find that hit-and-run driver. I have to. The search distracts me. I must focus on the evidence. I will focus like no one else can. I’m afraid of what will keep me sane after I hunt the driver down. What horror will I replace my baby’s death scene with? Will it reduce my pain when I hurt them? Will the satisfaction of their death finally end the loop of horror in my mind?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy. Snapped. Gone around the bend. I want to forget, but I can’t. Once I’ve killed the driver, maybe I can replace my current nightmare with other memories. Wonderful, joyful memories of the many days we snuggled or played. I truly hope so, because some memories are best forgotten.