Memories are made of this

A Story by me.

When you have to say goodbye, how will you want to be remembered?

As I stood here, breathing in the scent of lilies, my hand resting on your coffin as memories flood in and I feel a thousand eyes watching me, waiting. I was taking my time, preparing myself for I had to deliver your eulogy.

"Dakota Matson." I take a deep breath and exhale. "It was fall when I first saw her. Actually that is a lie. I saw her before, many times actually. We weren’t exactly in the same circle of friends, we just shared mutual friends. But from day one of meeting her? I knew she was different. She had the ability to light up the room like a torch in the dead of the night. So I will rephrase that, it was fall when I first spoke to her. She was by herself on the bench with the autumn leaves falling all around her and I must have interrupted her reading, but if it irritated her, she didn’t show it. I had decided, after seeing her sitting on that park bench, that I would go talk to her. And I did, we sat on the bench talking, chatting, and laughing. Her laughter, I realised, was something that I loved the sound of, and as we chatted and got to know each other better, I gradually, without even realising it, fell in love with her. I don’t remember when I started, but I just knew that I was irrevocably in love with Dakota Matson.

There are so many memories of us; strolling together in the sunshine; dancing in the rain; getting lost but finding our way again; all the worries; celebrations - especially of that tiny lottery win; a short stay in an expensive hotel; shopping because she loved to. But out of so many, my favourite memory of us was us just sitting on the couch, her sitting beside me with her legs stretched out and her side against mine, reading, because that was how we spent our evenings. Cozied up, perhaps with a blanket or maybe a cool drink, but definitely, definitely with a book. It was one of the things that you could be sure of, as sure as you are that the Earth orbits the sun.

Then, one day, it all changed. I remember her returning with tears streaming down her cheeks like waterfalls. ‘Stage 4, Ian. I have lung cancer. 2-13% survival rate.’ I held her close to me, gripping her tightly, eyes clenched willing this all to go away. My heart thumped fast and loudly in my ears, I thought that I had a nightmare and that I was going to wake up soon. But it wasn’t a nightmare, nor was I going to wake up soon. It was real, and it was horrifying.

She soon became a shell of who she was, depressed and quiet. She retracted, secluded herself from the world, she stopped laughing, talking. Her breathing became irregular, and lost interest in eating or drinking. Her eyes now black holes, were in deep dark cavities. It scared me, frightened me. She was barely recognisable, she was now just a flickering light in the dark, and I was afraid to death that this light would flicker out and die. But nonetheless, I still loved her. I thought to myself, this can’t be it. It just can’t. She got better, she started eating again, drinking again, and even talking again. The last exchange between us, she gave me a present, engraved and personalised. I guess she knew that her ending had been written and it was inevitable to rewrite it. She handed me a watch saying that if I kept looking back at the past, I may find that the future has raced on without me, leaving me behind. And then her condition deteriorated fast. The doctor said it was common with lung cancer patients. They would suddenly get better. Almost as though they are about to recover. Then just as fast as they recovered, their condition would worsen at twice the speed.

She lived life to the fullest, did what she wanted and what she loved. For that, I commend her because she left without regret on her mind. Dakota, your name means ever smiling and that is how you will be remembered, perched on the bench with a book in hand, leaves falling all around you. And you, who saw a mole hill as a mountain and saw the positive side of everything. Don’t remember her for the mangled remains of her personality, tortured by cancer, but as the woman who was witty, intelligent, and so full of life."

Jolting out of memory, I inhaled sharply as I realised that I’m not in the funeral anymore. I’m in a café. And my coffee is cold, but I lift the cup to my lips as I stare straight ahead at the empty seat in front of me. Looking around, I notice a pot of healthy lilies. How ironic.