#memoryyyyy

The question being, if you could only keep one memory what would it be? Which is mildly terrifying actually, because I have a lot of small, strange memories, and I'd miss all of them. Even the ones from when I stayed up until six in the morning drinking red wine mixed with Coca Cola with my flatmate and two Irishmen, or the time I was camping and a tree fell down near our tent in the middle of the night and I couldn't sleep because I was so scared we'd be crushed. 

In the end, though, I think I'd choose a memory that felt nice. My favourite memories are chosen more for feel than content, and I return to them often enough that they're like a soft quilt on the bed that you can lie beneath while the sun burns away the morning outside your window. 

So, I have a recent memory of being in New York City, and being enraptured, rather than ambivalent about it. (This is probably not the best memory I could have chosen, but trying to pick was stressing me out, and this one feels nice. Maybe I'll pick a different one tomorrow, even though that's not how this game is supposed to go.)

It was dusk, a perfect August dusk in the West Village and I found this wonderful cafe on Christopher Street that had floor-to-ceiling windows that were all thrown wide. And I was wearing overalls with one broken strap, and drinking tea out of a patterned ceramic mug, and writing in my journal. And the air was soft and sweet, the kind you get on summer evenings that feels like velvet, and it felt wonderful on my back, and everyone in the cafe looked so kind and interesting and they had an honest-to-god record player, which was playing Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah', because of course it was. And I still remember what page I was writing on in my journal, because I took down these details - along with one about the man who walked in in a blazer and brogues and pinstripe pants torn and frayed just above his ankles - and then wrote: REMEMBER THIS, REMEMBER THIS. Because it was wonderful, and it felt good.