Nov 13, 2014 17:52
"You know," she said, "I still have a mixtape that you made for me from way back when."
And she got up, walked to one of her bookshelves, and pulled out a tape, like she always knew that it was there; like she had gone back to it many times in the recent past, to look at it and remind herself of me.
I don't actually remember the tape that I made for her, nor do I have a memory of what provoked me to make it, but I remember the postcard that I cut up to make the cover, and I remember the songs that were once so dear and meaningful. Turning it over in my hand, it was like holding this fragment of a self that I had almost forgotten, that existed before the memories captured in Facebook and Livejournal. There was a person that I was that loved making mixes for friends and sharing them as a gift. I don't do it as often anymore, but I like that this shadow of me lingers in her memories and in her idea of who I am.
"Do you still have a cassette deck?" I asked.
"No. I don't have a way to play it. I can't even remember the last time that I listened to this tape. But I still kept it, because it was from you."