Some days I feel like I'm moving through a world that's standing still. In that stillness, I catch glimpses of what that world once was, or at least, my little piece of it.
Twenty years later, I still tie my shoes the opposite way from how I learned when I was five. Out of habit, I still take my hat off when I enter a building, like my teachers told me to in elementary school. Every time I get into my car, I still consciously duck my head more than I should, because I remember my friend in high school who used to hit his head against the top of it every time, without fail.
Before a workout, I still warm up in the same way our trainer had us warm up before games in my teenage years. I'm still cautious of how loud I play my music because of a patient I had who told me to make sure I take care of my hearing after losing most of his. I still play certain songs when the seasons change because they carry a piece of love I haven't let go of. I still make sure to take a second to stop and look at the beautiful things because they remind me of the person who once told me that wonder is in all of them.
I guess I still live life as if all these people are somehow still watching me, and sometimes I like to think that they remember these moments too. So I wonder if all the people who have seen me tie my shoes remember how I don't make two loops first. I wonder if those same teachers, in their retirement, still think about the kid who couldn't get his hat off fast enough and laugh at the fact that it happened before he even stepped foot into the door.
I wonder if my friend still ducks his head out of instinct when he gets into his car, and I wonder if he hears our laughter again when he does it. I wonder if that trainer still uses those same exercises for a new team and if it reminds him of how badly our team messed them up the first time. I wonder if that patient still remembers the patience I showed on the day we crossed paths and how intensely I listened to the words he was saying to me. I wonder if she too changes songs with the seasons, or if she thinks of me when the world looks a lot like wonder.
When my music's too loud, when my thoughts say your name, when something stops me in my tracks, when my head's too high and my form is too low, I wonder if, somehow, you feel it all come through.
Maybe, somehow, you think of me in the way that I think of you.
I'd like to think that maybe, some days, I'm a small bit of warmth in your heart, or a flicker of light in the back of your mind. Maybe a sound in the silence, or a gentle tug in the wind. As if, somehow, we're all connected through the web of life, and that connection lets us relive some of these moments in our thoughts. I hope I'm part of a few of those. Not because I think I'm unforgettable or important, I definitely don't, but because I believe the mosaic of life wouldn't be as profound as it is without the little moments that compose it.
I guess that's why I have such a hard time forgetting the smallest of things. I guess I just wonder who still remembers those moments, and if anyone ever reaches for them, or even for me, or if they all retreat. Maybe I spend too much time chasing the possibility of that thought. Maybe I'm a little too hopeful, or a bit too unrealistic, but I'd like to think that sometimes it's ok to let yourself be both.
