I remember you.
I know that you will most likely never read those three words, never know the gravity and weight they have had upon my heart so often. You very well may not even remember me, what irony that would be, but I had to say them, to try to get the words out to you somehow.
In case you don't remember, I'll remind you.
Three years ago, I wandered amidst an old cemetery in Prescott, Arizona. Capturing with my camera the mysteries that the old headstones, weathered and faded, presented to me. I was drawn in and fascinated, entranced by thoughts of who they were, what they looked like, and how they spent their days.
Do not think I was too occupied to notice you there under the shade of the only tree, your drink in hand, watching me as I wandered amidst the stones.
In case you don't remember, I'll remind you.
Three years ago, I wandered amidst an old cemetery in Prescott, Arizona. Capturing with my camera the mysteries that the old headstones, weathered and faded, presented to me. I was drawn in and fascinated, entranced by thoughts of who they were, what they looked like, and how they spent their days.
Do not think I was too occupied to notice you there under the shade of the only tree, your drink in hand, watching me as I wandered amidst the stones.
Inevitably my path lead me to pass near you.
"What are you doing?"
Your curiosity was colored by your harsh tone and clear distaste for my activity. I explained to you my photographic intents, my fascination of graveyards and the great curiosity they sparked in me. I asked if you had ever thought or felt the same.
Clearly you thought me mad. My desire to know about the lives of the dead was salt on a wound I hadn't expected. You questioned why should I care about the dead and the lives they had lead, they are long gone and forgotten, I should just leave it at that. I attempted a poor explanation, now lost to my memory, but the next words you uttered are not, they were soaked with such deep hurt and resentment I will never forget them.
"Well I'm still alive and everyone's forgotten me."
Oh how these words pierced me, my heart broke for you then. I stood speechless watching as you walked away, climbed the wall and disappeared into the trees.
Too little too late, the words finally came to me,
"I won't forget you."
You didn't hear me, already gone from sight, but I said it anyways, I promised it regardless.
Now three years on and each time I find myself in Prescott, passing that very same graveyard I look in, hopeful to see you there, resting in the shade of that little tree, drink in hand. I would walk up to you and tell you,
I remember you.
"What are you doing?"
Your curiosity was colored by your harsh tone and clear distaste for my activity. I explained to you my photographic intents, my fascination of graveyards and the great curiosity they sparked in me. I asked if you had ever thought or felt the same.
Clearly you thought me mad. My desire to know about the lives of the dead was salt on a wound I hadn't expected. You questioned why should I care about the dead and the lives they had lead, they are long gone and forgotten, I should just leave it at that. I attempted a poor explanation, now lost to my memory, but the next words you uttered are not, they were soaked with such deep hurt and resentment I will never forget them.
"Well I'm still alive and everyone's forgotten me."
Oh how these words pierced me, my heart broke for you then. I stood speechless watching as you walked away, climbed the wall and disappeared into the trees.
Too little too late, the words finally came to me,
"I won't forget you."
You didn't hear me, already gone from sight, but I said it anyways, I promised it regardless.
Now three years on and each time I find myself in Prescott, passing that very same graveyard I look in, hopeful to see you there, resting in the shade of that little tree, drink in hand. I would walk up to you and tell you,
I remember you.
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