Memory

Star, what is a memory?

I watched my brother blink slowly. His sable flesh contrasted oddly with the abnormally pale skin of his eyelids. It looked like he was always awake, in that way. As if his pupils had rolled back to expose his sclera, as if he did not even have the means to close his eyes.

When they opened again, he was looking at me. His red irides quaked in their sockets as he examined me in that stoic way he always did.

A memory is just a transcribed past. Anamnesis, the god of memory, writes down every event to ever happen in their book, and they grant us visions of their words so we can learn from the past, he said.

Anamnesis is a lesson-teacher. They want you to remember your faults so you can change the future. They want you to remember their biased version of events wracked with guilt and sin.

Memory is always biased. Because it is filled with scorn of the kin we were and hope of the kin we might become.

I reached up for his thick, calloused fingers. My hand was small and pudgy with youth. Do you think Anamnesis has favorites, Star? Sometimes I think you might be their favorite. You have so much knowledge!

Star squeezed my hand and led me through the hollowed out peak that was our tribe, guiding me between groups of my tribemates who scowled at me as we went. 

I am not Anamnesis’ favorite, Jacalynn, he said, elongating his pauses as if he was choosing every word with great care. Anamnesis’ favorites are everyone who values that past and wisens from their mistakes. I am not a learner like you; I am not wise.