When I think about it, this is all Ellen’s fault. I think. I am here because Ellen gave up on us—on The Team. Stopped caring. Or maybe that was me. Actually, I don’t remember. But I remember the team. Us. Or the story of Us. The ad campaign featuring Us. Us the united front. Us on the same page. Us finishing each other’s sentences. Us liking the same movies, the same music. Arlo Guthrie and the Byrds and Zeppelin and the Who and Mama Cass. It Never Rained in California. Until Mama Cass choked on a ham sandwich.
But why can’t I remember who we really were? The real us. Maybe we were those people. I don’t remember now. I miss that memory. Actually remembering us is unfathomable. Like trying to smell chimney smoke from an autumn fire when you’re standing on a beach in August. It can’t be done. There is an ocean of time to cross, and the dizzying scent of sand and salt and melting ice cream. And no matter how much you want it, you will never find your way back to that smoke and that chimney. You will only feel the empty space and not know why you are so sad. Especially when the day is sunny and the ocean is warm and the sand is soft under your feet.
You won’t know why because you won’t remember what belongs there. You will only feel the ache of absence and know something unnamable is missing.