Leaving Memories

I'm in Boulder, the town I called home for most of my twenties. The weather's beautiful. The people-watching is excellent. The streets and buildings are deeply familiar and also confusing, like a dream. The house I lived in on High St. is gone. The shopping mall that sat empty for so many years has been replaced by a Home Hepot. The health food store I worked in looks exactly the same, but it's filled with strangers instead of friends.

To add to my confusion, I watched the vice-presidential candidate's debate last night. I wouldn't usually torture myself so, but some old friends had invited me over and I wanted to see them. I never knew them all that well, but I'd always liked them very much. I was pleased to hear they had pleasant memories of my younger self.

"Look," they said, pointing to a bowl of chips sitting next to two kinds of salsa. "You brought this dish to a party here once. You brought it with flowers floating in it, and left it behind. We always think of you when we use it."

I don't remember that at all, but I believe them. It sounds like something I'd do, and the bowl almost seemed familiar.

How frightening to think that such an off-hand act could last in someone's memory for so many years. I'm relieved their association with me was a happy one. Thank goodness I hadn't broken something that night, or brought something offensive. But, I guess if I had, their memory would have faded by now. Of course they might keep the useable thing I'd left, and remembered the flowers that came with it. But if I'd broken something, they would have fixed it by now...or replaced it. Maybe our community is self-selecting that way...filtering out the past for happy memories, and discarding the messed-up ones. I'd like to think so.

There was another woman there last night who remembered me from years ago. She asked how I'd been doing, and I was totally at a loss for words.

I could have told her that California is beautiful and I love it there. I could have said I'd learned to sail and bought myself a little boat. I could have described the hummingbirds, monarch butterflies, otters and dolphins that thrill me so frequently.

But it almost feels like lying to answer any question about how I've been without mentioning breast cancer. It's really been my main occupation since July. And if I don't mention it...then everyone else in the room who knows what I've been through might feel uncomfortable...like maybe I don't want it mentioned. Like, it's suddenly a secret. It's all so awkward.

I told her I was recovering from a mastectomy and asked, did she want to feel my fake boob? (The nice thing about the sleeveless dress I bought at Ross last week is, you can whip the prosthetic out right through the armhole. )

I'm sure this is not the most graceful way to handle the situation. If I run into her again in 10 years, will she remember me as the woman who made her squeeze a plastic tit on the night of the VP debates? Or, will she remember the lemon-curry soup I made from home-grown butternut squash. Or, will she remember nothing about that evening at all, because I didn't leave anything behind.