The Elephant
I have been blessed with a perfect memory. Not the kind that recalls math formulas or reminds me to return the sweater you left at mine but the kind that remembers how it felt when your fingers accidentally grazed my forearm. I remember the way you looked at me that one time, the crack in your voice when you told me what happened. I remember the moment exactly, how it felt, entirely, perfectly.
I have memories from as early as three years old. Some people tell me that’s impossible, that I must have invented them. But how could that be, when I’ve had them for as long as I’ve been conscious? There’s never been a version of my life without them. And if they’re made up, then how is it that my mother remembers them too?
I can still remember the sounds of the waves crashing as my mum put me in bed in our wooden beach house, how it lulled me yet also terrified me. The head of the snake my father beheaded on the step of my childhood bedroom, the way the ants crawled out of its mouth and the its dead eyes staring back at me. I will remember my mother’s screech before he did it, begging him to not kill it because it is forbidden in our culture. The feeling of deep joy to see my father come home from work, I still feel his strong hands holding me tight. I also remember those same hands yanking me off the floor after I had ripped his cigarettes open thinking they were little gifts. How my little fingers burned when I decided that the chilli needed a bath in the bathroom sink. The feeling of sneezing while eating my mother’s mushroom omelette in the morning and spitting it all over the place every time I sat on the sunny side of the table, because even then, sun rays made me sneeze. The deep frustration I felt when I’d see my own shadow because I hated how my curly hair looked as I tried to rip the strands off my head. I remember the way he enjoyed the very mediocre cookies my mother and I baked, how hard and sweet they were, how he told me I did a good job. How proud I felt in that moment. I remember the love I had for them both and the love they had for each other.
I remember the day he left us, the day she ran to the beach to find him. The fear and confusion of having to sleep at the neighbours for a few days. The smell of their room when it was only her, how unpleasant it was, like as if her tears had a scent. Oh god the pain, in her voice as she held my tiny head in her hands and how irritated I felt for some reason. I will forever recall the moment I understood that he wasn’t coming back. The moment she couldn’t accept it and ran towards to waves to try and join him. And it was like in that moment, my very little self decided that all I could do was remember as it was the only way to keep him alive somehow.
I can only speculate that keeping his memory so vividly alive has, in turn, trained my brain to remember everything. It’s a habit I’ve practiced for so long that forgetting now feels almost impossible. In many ways, it’s a gift. I’ve become the keeper of happy times, the key to memories others struggle to recall. When we finally sit down for coffee after months apart, I bring up that one story, and I love watching their faces light up as the sweetness of the moment returns to them. It warms my whole being to see them so touched by the fact that I would remember such detail because it lets them know that I care and I care to remember.
Being in love with a memory like mine can be magical, it’s a strength that makes me a better partner. The small things you say, even when you’re just muttering to yourself about picking something up from the store, stay with me; I’ll remember and bring it home to you. The way your face lit up that one time I made you tea is enough for me to keep doing it, just to see that flicker of joy again. And the harder things too — I’ll never mention that family member again, because I could tell, from the way your body tightened without a word, how deeply it hurt. My memory allows me to love completely, and to love right. And when I miss you, I’ll remember how your sleepy hand felt resting on my tummy this morning and the way your lashes looked up close when I woke before you, and I’ll close my eyes and remember the smell of your sheets and it’ll be like I was still right there with you.
Like most beautiful things, this kind of memory carries weight, it haunts, it hurts. Sometimes it feels like a curse, because memory does not choose sides. It lets me recall the warmth of your kiss, but also the ache of the last one. I lie there after it’s all over, trapped in the loop of what was, feeling the ghost of your hands that are no longer there. Your voice, still soft and gentle, repeats itself in perfect rhythm, like a record that won’t stop skipping. My heart keeps falling to my gut, again and again, just as it did the first time you told me.
I bite my tongue when I meet someone new and feel myself starting to fall, holding back from asking them to please be careful, please be gentle — it’s hard for me to forget. But, I do not say anything at all.
Sometimes it feels like no one understands how isolating it is to be the only one who remembers. As if I were the sole witness to something that never really happened. The pain they caused isn’t real to anyone but me because no one else remembers it. Their words and actions still echo, cutting into me over and over again. And when I try to mention it, even lightly, and they respond with “I said that?”, I realise that I was the only one who suffered. That moment wasn’t shared, it was mine alone.
I have no choice but to remember. I carry everything with me as life goes on, the good and the painful alike. Sometimes it feels heavy, like being followed by ghosts of my own making, a chronic nostalgia that demands effort just to stay present. But it’s worth it, because I get to keep the sweetest memories too the ones that still glow inside me, shaping the young woman I’ve become. I gather them the way I once gathered seashells and small dead crabs on the beach, my father nearby, watching me with that quiet, knowing smile.
Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025
