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I’d been doing just fine, several books of progress blanketed scrawls in every word I know in every language and code and every picture I can describe, every sensation I worry to lose. The first page was the first new memory: a child put down a very deliberate number of coins, took two very special treats, and looked as happy as anything, and chocolate I remembered could do that. I put down the same number of coins, took the same two treats. I didn’t eat them, hadn’t earned them, yet. If I could fill a book, I could have them. That first page: chocolate today, I have had chocolate before. Male child ~20 kg, 1 m, brown hair missing front teeth, cartoon lizard on a yellow jumper, one shoe untied. Said each coin’s value out loud, precious counting, I did the same. Two caramel candies
are still sitting in that apartment, on the last notebook, the incentive wasted, but
I did that, for myself this time.
I want it all back, I wanted it so fresh it hurt. If I could get it down, I could keep it down.
If I had that book now, I could fill it. These images are flooding back and I have no place to keep them safe, my mind is not. Every twitch and touch and I’m tearing strips from the walls, manic, no stem to flood, Steve in flesh and blood and I
I was doing just fine. I would have been ready.
The first weeks, months, were sifting sand. Greedily mining, bit bit bit piece, dopamine success or horror, grips. Filled the pages, pens run dry. Keeping tabs, rearranging. Start with the corners, Buck.
Rearranging (presumed) history, my timeline in moments. Mothers: his, mine, Irish, Italian, hard-working brow furrowed, boots off at the door. Church, temple. Groceries, barely. Potatoes, heaven help. The place of our own, less memories here. Cooking: his was decent, mine terrible. Weather: cold, cold. Shared warmth. Summer, unbearable, but we could get to the water. Steve, writing our names in the sand. Steve, always sketching on the floorboards and wiping it away. Messages, when he left without me.
No, the punk didn’t wait, couldn’t wait for me to be the one to come back. Not then, not now. Shot from a gun, Steve. You couldn’t wait. Why can’t you wait. Can’t you give me time to figure it out? I will figure it out!
Steve? I should be driving. We took the train everywhere. I hate the backseat, watching.
I’ve been in the backseat for seventy years. Wilson is distant, but no kid gloves. That’s a first, I can appreciate. I get it. I remember him. And
Her, I’ve seen.
1.7 m, apx 50 kg, blonde, very blonde. They stand close. Close.
Steve?
“It was only a kiss.”
It happened before, like this, like smoke, a sense memory knocks. Thick metallic tongue heavy, I have no words, no clever sport. I want that. I don’t want anything. We didn’t then, did we? We couldn't afford the price.
I'm confusing places, splitting time watching the same scene. It's not Peggy, and it is.
If I remember, how can he have forgotten?
It happened just like this, but quiet, hidden, soft mouths.
She looks the same, impossibly. Years separate, but the eyes are bright, stance sharp and forward. But she was not blonde. No; these are different pieces. Her hand on his lapel, ghosting down. Puzzle pieces I’d written in the third notebook, when it came back from darkness: Victory Red lipstick, standard issue, morale booster (they called it) for boys and girls in uniform, a symbol of patriotism. Its pigment was strong against sickly camo green but like everything rationed, just a taste and a wish, and smeared a romantic cloud on a boy’s face to match his full-body blush, punk, you couldn’t hide it if you tried. Didn’t take a gumshoe to know a recruit was sneaking something sweet on the side. Whose? A better question. They all wore the same shade. Do your part, ladies, put on a brave face.
Put on a brave face, and he did. For America, put on your bravest face, James Barnes, sergeant. Show him your bravest face.
Me too: green.
I can't look.
His hands trembled. His hands, delicate ghosting over the paper, feathers of charcoal. Those hands, cold, small. Hold still. Hold them. Those hands, holding on. Then, stronger, new to hold, new to holding. Then, we knew the enemy. We fought together. We knew how to be together.
Blue eyes, black charcoal, sweet and safe and--- something else. Don’t write that down. Wipe it away. No red smears to give us away, Steve. It was only
Steve?
Lets me go.
Victory red in a short sharp flash, a puff of violet powder and the deafening tang. Victory red, on his lips and my hands and dripping in the snow. They stopped making victory red. I did not.
But I did that, for myself this time: I let him go. First, before. To her.
Baby bear’s bed, Steve. Just right! Lullabies on the coldest nights, this image belongs earlier. This is why I paid a price, this is the debt I owed.
That’s right. Together in all things, til the end of the line.
Where is that? 95th Street? Or Canarsie?
"It was only a kiss." But
I let him go. I smiled, Bright.
But, envious. Green is a color I wear so well. Camouflage.
You can have any girl in the place, Buck. Is that right?
And I feel sick to my stomach, here is muscle memory, tightening grip, a wince into a smile when you can’t be invisible. A world of super powers, and I’m still right here and he still can’t
See? This is how it went. This is how it goes. Smile. That’s right. Just right. Smile now, you smiled then. Don’t look away. Remember it.
See, you remember. You can remember. Doing just fine.