gozzterLeave a Comment on Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that’s gone.

Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that’s gone.

We’re all different aren’t we? We prioritize things according to different needs; we try to remember what we judge important; we alter memories that suited some purpose at the time. Why else would my memory of a long-ago trip with my ex be so fraught?

It all started with meeting some friends in New Zealand although in a different city from where I worked. My wife had flown in the day before, but on a late evening flight so much of the next day’s itinerary had been arranged by phone.

I am terrible with directions and am easily confused with streets that don’t follow a 90 degree grid pattern; or, perhaps just as bad: directions which involve too many changes of streets in weekend traffic and with multiple roundabouts exponentially increasing the chances of losing a car which I was supposed to follow. I hadn’t experienced Auckland traffic and nobody had cell phones in those days…

Even at the best of times, stress challenges my directional instincts, and a still jet-lagged wife determined not to lose sight of my friends’ car did little to hone my performance. I mean we were going to meet my friends for breakfast somewhere near a beach and only saw them for a quick hug and introduction at our motel before we were to follow their car to the restaurant they had chosen. Anyway, in less than fifteen minutes, we –I– lost them in the labyrinth of streets and roundabouts; but in the anxiety of argument, it’s difficult to remember if it was me or my wife who first dropped the gauntlet.

“Now where do we go, G?” I could feel her eyes trying to tear their way through my cheek. “Do you even remember the name of the beach?” she added through rigidly fixed jaws.

I shrugged in silent reply, as I navigated yet another busy roundabout. “I think we were right behind them on the last set of traffic circles…”

“You think!!! You’re supposed to be watching, G.”

“I was,” I said with an audible sigh, “and so were you, but on these busy two-lane roundabouts it’s hard to decide which lane to aim for without knowing which exit we want to take…”

“Oh for god’s sake!”

“I wanted you to drive, but you wouldn’t,” I replied, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“On the left side of the road? You’re the one who has been in New Zealand for the past month, G!” She stared out of the open car window at the residential street I had steered us to. “Where are we now?” Her voice was becoming more strident, and her eyes were bulging.

I had to shrug again. “I really don’t know… but at least there’s no traffic here,” I said, pulling into an empty space beside a little park and trying to smile

“Well why don’t you get out of the car and ask somebody?”

I stared at her, barely containing my frustration. “Ask them what? Do you remember the name of the beach?”

Her face was turning purple and I could see her fists clenching with each deep breath she was taking. “You’re useless, G! I don’t know why I allowed myself to be talked into taking a 14 hour flight to meet you here!”

That was a below the belt kick, so I got out of the car and slammed the door as hard as I could. She realized I had forgotten to take the keys, so she locked the doors and rolled up all the windows with an evil grin on her face.

Things did not look good for either of us; it was a standoff: we were parked on some hot urban street in a strange city with no idea where we should be headed. So I did what anybody would do under similar circumstances: I began kicking the door. I was wearing sandals so the only thing that suffered were my toes. I didn’t know what else to do but scream at her to open the door!

An older man who happened to hear the shouting from a bench in the park crossed the street and, watching me with wary eyes, talked to my wife through her closed window, and asked her if she wanted him to phone the police. I think that embarrassed her enough to shake her head, roll down her window, and thank him. Then, still fuming, she asked him how to get back to our motel -my friends would know by now to double back and meet us there.

It was a minor event perhaps, but not unusual for that time in our marriage. My friends thought it was hilarious; my wife thought it was just another reason why we were incompatible.

And yet, in spite of the many pleasant memories of that trip, that particular one resurfaced many years later, long after we had divorced, and long after we had again become friends. She was in town to visit someone who had apparently just returned from New Zealand and maybe that triggered her idea to meet me for coffee later.

After a brief hug at seeing each other again, she studied my face for a moment, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Remember that time we got lost in Auckland and you were so mad you parked across from a tiny playground and left me in the hot car?”

I smiled and shook my head. “You got mad at me first, as I remember it…”

Her eyes opened wide at that. “You threatened to hit me, G…”

I shook my head again. “It was your fists that were clenched, remember. And in those days you usually hit me first if I didn’t get out of the way… My parking and leaving the car was purely defensive.”

She chuckled, clearly enjoying our different memories. “If that sweet old man hadn’t come along, I’d probably still be sitting in the hot car…”

I had to think about that for a moment; I’d forgotten about the man. “He was Mauri wasn’t he,” I asked, the memory still vague. “I think he had an accent…”

She looked at me with a devil in her face. “No.”

I frowned, semi-seriously. “So what was he then? Australian?”

She thought about that. “No, I’m pretty sure he was Samoan…”

I was puzzled at her knowing where he was from; I didn’t think they’d had time to exchange pleasantries. “You asked him where he was from through the partially closed window? You were so mad you could barely speak.”

She smiled, the devil returning to her eyes. “When I’m really mad, my anger usually goes into my eyes not my mouth, G. You, of all people, should remember that.”

“I was usually too busy defending myself from your fists; your eyes were never as dangerous…”

We both chuckled, and our eyes softened as we remembered how we used to look at each other when we made up after a fight.

But I was still curious. I didn’t remember her saying much to the man -mostly just shaking her head. “So… how did you know where he was from?”

“I was mad, but not blind, G,” she said, her smile growing ever larger at the memory. “Think about him for a moment; I’m sure the episode is as etched in your memory as it is in mine…”

I closed my eyes and tried to bring more than just the anger of the incident to mind. I could see myself fuming by the car, I could almost feel the kicks my feet were giving the metal door. I remembered the city heat, and the hoarseness after yelling, but only an indistinct memory of the man; they were both on the opposite side of the car from me…

“Okay,” I said, convinced as I always was that my wife had abilities I could only ever approximate. “I give up.”

“Don’t you remember that torn old hat he was wearing?”

I shook my head.

“It said Samoa.”

“And you remember that?”

Her eyes twinkled again, just like they used to when we were close. “He took it off out of respect for me when we talked… I noticed, eh?”

In that moment, it occurred to me what I had lost…

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