Last night I was driving through the city, chilling. (Seems that something always pops off for me emotionally when I’m chilling) Anyway I passed Jaleo’s, our restaurant. Me and my girlfriend, the one who passed away back in August. Our restaurant. The quaint spot with the succulent sausage and spinach tapas and the sangria and the window we gazed out of and the cute, too-small table, our table, right there a few feet from the window. Since it was one of her favorite places, I loved it too. Its glittery lights and fancy diners, hip and happening. And now, none of it matters. It’s all just something to talk about or to remember fondly as I drive by on a frigid Wednesday night in the District. Now it’s a pretty memory bunched up in my heart with nothing to do and no place to go. Who cares? Did I nail it for you too? That feeling that a place, once sacred, is now just a kernel of nostalgia swallowed over coffee? I mean, what are we to do with our millions and millions of memories? What’s it all for? Is it better not to make memories since eventually they’ll all turn to dust? I listen to these thoughts as they go through me and I feel very sad, very empty. I cried last night when I passed our restaurant. I fought the urge to slam open the entrance door screaming: that’s where me and my girlfriend used to sit. That’s the drink we would sip on Saturday afternoons when all we wanted to do was be together and talk and laugh. Hey, that’s our waiter.” But I probably would’ve been arrested (or worse, ignored) or regarded as a lunatic who’s had too many sangrias. So, there. I said it. Our memories are dust to others but diamonds to us. We cling to them desperately, share them relentlessly or fall silent and just feel them in the isolated places inside us. Indiscriminately they well up, we tear up then so what them til they go back into hiding. Le sigh. So it all
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