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REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PRESENT
I FEEL MUCH better after we grab a quick bite to eat. We need beach gear and, according
to Olly, souvenirs, so we stop in a store called, helpfully, Maui Souvenir Shop and General
Store. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much stuff. I find myself overwhelmed with the
sheer volume of it. Stacks and stacks of T-shirts and hats that say Maui, or Aloha, or some
variation of that. Racks of hanging flower-patterned dresses in almost every color.
Carousel after carousel of tchotchkes—key chains, shot glasses, magnets. One carousel is
dedicated solely to surfboard key chains with stenciled names, alphabetically arranged. I
search for Oliver or Madeline or Olly or Maddy, but don’t find any.
Olly comes up behind me and wraps a single arm around my waist. I’m standing in
front of a wall of calendars featuring shirtless surfers. They’re not unattractive.
“I’m jealous,” he murmurs into my ear, and I laugh and rub my hands over his forearm.
“You should be.” I reach for one of the calendars.
“You’re not really—”
“For Carla,” I say.
“Sure, sure.”
“What did you get?” I lean my head back against his chest.
“Seashell necklace for my mom. Pineapple ashtray for Kara.”
“Why do people buy all this stuff?”
He holds me a little tighter. “It’s not so mysterious,” he says. “It’s so we remember to
remember.”
I turn in his arms, thinking how quickly it’s become my favorite place in the world.
Familiar, foreign, comforting, and thrilling all at once.
“I’m going to get this for Carla,” I say, brandishing the calendar. “And chocolate-covered
macadamia nuts. And one of those dresses for myself.”
“What about your mom?”
What kind of memento do you get for the mother who has loved you your whole life,
who has given up the world for you? Who you may never see again? Nothing will ever do,
not really.
I think back to the old photograph she showed me of all of us in Hawaii. I have no
memory of it, no memory of being on that beach with her and my dad and my brother, but
she does. She has memories of me, of a life that I don’t have at all.
I pull away from Olly and wander around the store. By eighteen years old, other
teenagers have separated from their parents. They leave home, have separate lives, make
separate memories. But not me. My mom and I have shared the same closed space and