To Be Human is to Remember

In August of this year, I found myself taking an unforeseen trip to the beach with a group that my past self would have thought unimaginable. Amongst this group was someone I had only heard of in high school. When speaking with him, I came to the realization that I had met his sister once. This came as a shock to him and as we discussed the brief meeting I had with her, he asked me how I remembered her. A question to which I responded, “I don’t forget people I’ve laughed with.” Those words seemed so profound coming out of my mouth, especially when referring to someone I had only spoken with once, but as I sat in the sand with those words accompanied by salt in the air, I realized how true that statement was.

Every so often I find myself smiling over a memory in which I shared laughter with someone. Whether it’s a person I’m currently good friends with, a person I spoke with for only 30 minutes, a person whose friendship had an expiration date, or someone who followed a different path than me. In these short letters you’re about to read, I address a few of the people I rarely or never encounter anymore who, in addition to making me laugh, helped me romanticize humanity in the process.

To my childhood best friend:

We were victims of growing up and no one’s to blame—that’s life. The symphony of our small voices screaming “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey in the elementary school cafeteria kitchen echoes in my mind when I see you on my Instagram feed. That was when we volunteered to clean milk cartons used for the creation of our fifth-grade gingerbread houses. The lunch ladies sang with us as we pranced around and giggled, the mist from the faucet hose spraying in all directions. I think of when we saw Divergent (2014) in the movie theater and mid-movie you turned and yelled at the boys behind us for eating their chips too loudly. I had to muffle my laughter with the sleeve of my jacket. We were girls together, innocently and unapologetically.

To the boy I called a brother:

People wonder if men and women can ever truly just be friends, and my connection with you was proof that it just might be possible. Although we haven’t spoken since high school, when I think of you, I don’t think of the falling out. I think of us in middle school climbing the tree in your front yard and the time we pulled a ramp from your garage and pushed each other off in a wagon. I remember us buckling over in laughter at the aftermath, collapsing to the pavement. It never got old. That was back when your favorite song was “Same Old Love” by Selena Gomez. I think of that time in high school when we were in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru and you unintentionally made me erupt into so much laughter that tears poured out of my eyes. I think of how we could both make fun of one another without getting offended. I always saw the best in you, even now, and I like to think we were kind of family without the blood tie.

To the guitar player in my seventh-period senior year of high school:

When I reminisce on my final year of high school, your presence in my last class of the day was truly a highlight compared to the intense levels of senioritis. I’ll admit, you had to grow on me, but you achieved that in no time because of laughter. Laughter that I attempted to hide because I never wanted to give you the pleasure of knowing you created it. Well, here’s the long overdue confession. I still have the multiple fake podcast episodes we made with our classmate in my voice memos, and I still chuckle over the time you called Olive Garden because I scared you into thinking they stopped selling unlimited breadsticks. During my last few weeks of high school, you showed me the song “All Good Things (Come to an End)” by Nelly Furtado and now every time I listen to it, I’m 18 years old again sitting next to you on a piano bench.

To one of the first friends that I made in college:

When I think of our friendship in passing, it’s a cold night in November in your living room. I’m sitting on a deflating air mattress, mourning a boy you know all too well. You mentioned to me once that you weren’t a hugger, but in that moment, you deviated from my expectations as you emerged from your room and wrapped me in a much-needed embrace. After you pulled away, you not only listened and reasoned with me, but somehow you managed to pry laughter out of me despite the heartache I felt I was drowning in. Sharing that laugh with you made the pain feel more bearable and I thank you for that. I’ll always associate you with that moment of alleviation.

To someone who was temporary:

You remind me of mayonnaise. Yes, I do hate mayonnaise, but not in this case. You remind me of mayonnaise because of the time I sat on the phone with you in my dorm fervidly ranting about my opposition to the condiment. As I rambled on and on, my roommate walked in and asked what I could be ranting about so passionately, and I subjected her to the rant you faced prior. As you listened attentively from the phone, she went silent, and I demanded that she enlighten me about what brought this silence on. She revealed that the dinner she had made for me the night before, one that I found delightful, had mayo in it. This reveal caused a roar of laughter from you, for I, mayo’s biggest enemy, had consumed and regrettably enjoyed it after all. Your laughter was so infectious that I couldn’t help but join in the laughter at myself. Sure, my hatred for mayo is nothing serious (to an outsider) but laughing with you opened me up to take things less seriously, especially myself.

I could write many more of these, but what these few memories have in common is the human experience of finding relief. Even if temporary, humans are all just looking for some consolation and, in my opinion, there’s no better way than shared joy, even if it’s over something as silly as a condiment. I used to view my good memory as a curse because even after parting ways with people, I could tell you random fun facts about them and niche memories they probably don’t even remember themselves. What was I supposed to do with all the information I acquired now that we don’t talk? Rather than looking at it as a curse, I relish the idea that carrying these mental souvenirs with me is evidence of what it means to be human and that someone somewhere cared at some point, and I think that’s beautiful.

Strike Out,

Writer: Lindsey Limbach

Editor: Blake N. Fiadino

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