I Remember

For Mary Grace

I was recently given this writing prompt: Based on Joe Brainard’s 1975 little book “I Remember,” write a sentence beginning with the words “I remember” and then do it again. Every sentence starts with “I remember.”

I started writing down whatever came to my mind, beginning with my very first memory: our flight from Buenos Aires to New York, three weeks before I turned three. But the sentences kept converging on Mary Grace Williams, who was my best friend starting in junior high. I realized that the whole thing needed to be about Mary; read to the end to see why.

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I remember the sounds of crickets and cicadas in the hot Illinois summers, and how the drone of cicadas came in pulsing waves that sounded like heat itself.

I remember walking home from parties in high school late at night with Mary Grace, through leafy green streets on steamy summer nights and over crunchy, sparkling snow on frigid winter nights. I remember trying not to be scared that lurking strangers might jump out from the dark and hurt us. 

I remember how Mary had an even harder time in junior high than I did, taunted about her looks while going through chemo and radiation for stage 4 Hodgkin’s. I remember some random popular girl asking me if Mary was dying. I remember her not dying.

I remember not sharing Mary’s shopping stamina and wondering what she was looking for in all those stores and knowing she would never find it there.

I remember Mary’s mother squealing in her high-pitched voice, “Mary, your cinnamon rolls are just beauuuuutiful!” I remember her accusing us of going on joy rides and wondering what joy rides were. I remember staying up till 4am talking with our close group of friends. I remember how Mary was always the one to draw people into our group. 

I remember her being strangely uptight for our liberal college town environment — not seeming interested in sex, getting offended easily, saying she didn’t believe in divorce — but also that she was more emotionally open and vulnerable than I could ever be. I remember her singing Carole King, Judy Collins, Simon & Garfunkel, Cole Porter, songs from “Hair” and “The Music Man,” and madrigals in her clear soprano at the top of her lungs while walking down the street — while I worried who might hear. 

I remember various guys in our small alternative high school being interested in Mary at one point or another, leading to enduring friendships with all of us. I remember her going out with or coming close to going out with a few of them, and how the most they did was hold hands.

I remember living with Mary’s family senior year of high school, because my parents had moved to the East Coast and I was too stubborn to leave Urbana with them. I remember how that strained our friendship with too much togetherness — and the fact that I was used to a more permissive environment than I found in her home.

I remember how she didn’t particularly care for my boyfriend — who once got suspended from school for running through the halls in his underwear — how I sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night to see him, and how I didn’t tell her much about him. I remember looking back on that and realizing what a fool I’d been. I remember that when we fought, she’d give me the silent treatment for days. I remember her unbridled laughter.

I remember how she devoured books of all kinds, and her particular love of spy novels. I remember when we both went through a major Virginia Woolf phase in our twenties. I remember writers she introduced me to, like Laurie Colwin, and music, like Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter.

I remember my surprise that she chose to study engineering in college, when she’d always seemed more interested in the arts. I remember being proud of her for being the only woman professor of theoretical and applied mechanics in her department. I remember her being proud of me when I became a freelance copyeditor.

I remember Mary going out of her way to pick up trash and throw it out as we walked through a supermarket parking lot in Boston, where she lived with her husband. I remember thinking she was a better person than I was.

I remember being both moved and highly entertained a few years ago on reading my diaries from junior high and high school, in which Mary featured prominently. I remember how some things I’d written about rang a bell and others never did, kind of freaking me out. I remember Mary, the first one to get her license, driving us around in her parents’ beige Dodge Dart, but not one cozy, dark nighttime drive with friends through the flat and endless Illinois countryside that made me feel warm and loving toward them. 

I remember that Mary remembered completely different things from then than I did.

I remember how devastated I felt when she died when we were 38. I remember not talking to her enough about death when she clearly wanted to, because she knew it was coming. I remember what a pain she could be — getting easily upset at the smallest thing, making me feel like I had to coddle her — and how she didn’t want to be remembered as a saint. I remember what she wanted to be known as: a singer, an actress, a writer, a damn good engineer, a good cook, well-dressed, a person with good taste, well-traveled … a good person. I remember that even when she was ill, she seemed more alive than most people.

I remember wanting to tell her something and almost picking up the phone to call her, before remembering I’d never be able to call her again.

I remember being surprised, 12 years after her death, at how much I still thought about her.

I remember the magical feeling of summer sleepovers on a balcony that overlooked Mary’s backyard, under a hundred-year-old oak tree. I remember going back to Illinois a few years ago and seeing that the tree had been cut down.

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Mary Grace was on my mind because she died 24 years ago on the memorable date of February 29, coming up in a couple days. How can it be that long ago? She still feels like part of me. I know that the memory of her is not just about her; it’s inextricably intertwined with my memory of adolescence, with its attendant strong feelings and its promise of a full life ahead. I also know that despite our differences, we had a deep connection that endures beyond death. I can’t pick up the phone to call her, which really sucks. I can’t tell her about what I’m doing now — though I sometimes do, anyway. But she’ll always be with me.