2007

There used to be this yellow-and-green backpack the kindergarten required every kid to wear. I remember flinging it across my room with utter disregard and the soft thump as it landed on my youthfully pink bed. I giggled delightfully as I rode the apartment elevator, holding hands with my 16-year-old sister. It was a rare sunny day in winter: snow, sparkling under the sun, had covered pretty much every square inch outside. I remember watching snow fall the other day around midnight, face pressed against the cold, fogged up window. The snow glowed from the soft orange light of the nearby streetlamp. I remember just how beautiful it was. 

Once outside, I deliberately pressed my shoes harder, deep into the snow, taking a few steps then turning back to admire the trail I carefully crafted behind me. My sister wiped the snow off a nearby bench with her sleeve. 

I sat down in front of her. I scooped up some of the snow and, after pressing it together with my hands, rolled it back into the snow to make it whiter, bigger, and rounder. I remember being frustrated because my snowball would not be as white and big and round as I wanted it to be. I walked up to the tree behind the bench, breaking off some of the smaller branches to provide arms for my snowman.

I looked up to see what my sister was doing. I remember reading the title of the book she was holding: Girl With a Pearl Earring. She sighed: my snowman-crafting was taking longer than she had expected.

I remember my gaze of admiration, the fleeting sense of accomplishment, the spark of pride I felt as I stuck the two small branches into the finally completed snowman.

I remember my mother opening the kitchen window - being four stories up, she had to shout - “It’s time to come home!” I was immensely disappointed. I wanted more time to spend with my snowman. My sister gestured at me to hurry up, and I, extremely reluctant, remember doing so. I placed every step back home in the little holes my shoes created a few hours ago. I remember the sense of guilt that almost overwhelmed me as I thought of my snowman, who would have to stand all alone for hours, only to melt into nonexistence. 

I did not feel too happy as my mother greeted me back home. I entered my room, closing the door behind me, and flung myself onto the bed - I think I forgot about my snowman then.

I remember this day more clearly than any other day in 2007. I remember, but I have no idea why. I remember all these details I know one day I will no longer be able to recall.