Out of all the things one can forget, what is the one thing they wont forget?
She sits there, looking out onto a lake of golden. Reflections of past sunlight rippling throughout the currents of the water. She can see her memories, floating by as the waves roll in, and then disappear, leaving a trail of soft white foam behind. A reminder of how her memories have yet to return.
She takes a sip of her now semi-cold diet coke, and tries to remember. Tries to piece everything back together. Putting it back into her fractured mind, only to deal with black patches and fuzzy spots. She isn’t quite sure what has happened to her, but she knows of her case. She has forgotten her life, her friends, and family. She has forgotten all she has learned in school, how to play simple card games, and cannot remember the meaning of love. She doesn’t know what love is, or how it feels anymore. She does not know if it is a thing you can touch with your fingers, letting it slip through them like silken water. Or if it is a smell, like cinnamon and strawberries. She can’t remember how it makes you feel, and whom you are supposed to love.
Her memories, thoughts, feelings, and everything else, are being captured in a small net, woven by the threads of eternity. They are being pulled up out of the water, out of her reach, and into a small rowboat, which the children like to play in. They have started to paddle away from her, unaware of the crying girl that tries to swim up to the boat. They cannot see her drowning in the fear or never remembering anything.
She does not recognize the feel of warmth, or wintriness. She can’t remember what snow is, or what happens when you swat at a wasp. She cannot remember pain, until it stabs at her, but even then, she does not know it to be anything worth acknowledging.
She does not remember the feel of spring, the warm rain, or the delight of smelling a beautiful daisy. She can’t recall ever walking barefoot on a beach of soft white sand, warmed by the rays of the afternoon sun. She can’t remember fall evenings, and walks in the park. Stepping on crisp colourful fallen leaves, and the tickle of cold on her cheeks. She doesn’t know the taste of sweet hot chocolate, after playing in the freezing snow, or the smells of Christmastime.
But she can remember one thing, and it is the one thing that will never leave her.
She remembers her faith. She remembers the way God spoke to her, when she woke up one morning, and could not remember who she was. Though she now knows herself to be called Maria, a version of the name Mary, she still cannot recall anyone ever calling her that. But it is what God told her, and she long ago learned to trust in him, no matter what.
So Maria sits on the porch of somebody’s house. Somebody she doesn’t know, but she is motherly, and seems to know her very well. She lives with a boy too, who is much younger than her, but she does not know who he is. But then there is another person. A man with her eyes. She doesn’t know how he can have her eyes, when her eyes are with her and she is looking out through them, but it is like that. And he seems to know her, but who he is, she might never know.
All she wishes is to remember. The only way she can possibly accomplish it is with the help of her real father. The Father. He will guide her, and together— piece-by-piece— they will fill the black patches in her mind, with colours beyond her world.