The things we remember

My first dirty coffee

“I remember the first-ever dirty you had.”

I look up from my coffee, surprised. “The very first?” I’ve been ordering dirty coffees for so many years I’m skeptical that my dad, who’s more forgetful than most, remembers my first.

“Yes,” dad maintains. “It was at Siam Paragon.”

I conjure up a mental image of the mall. “Where in Siam Paragon?” I narrow my eyes, disbelieving. We rarely go to Siam Paragon. If I’d had my first dirty there, surely I’d remember.

“The café was an island in the middle of the aisle, not a store.”

I try to recall said island. Nothing comes to mind.

“You didn’t know what a dirty was so you asked them to explain, then you ordered one.”

A memory stirs. A dirty on a counter. Being told to take a big gulp.

“The floor with the restaurants!” I exclaim.

“That’s it,” dad smiles, triumphant. “We walked by and saw how expensive a ‘dirty’ was. That caught your attention and you went up to the counter.”

I see it now. The island all in white. The menu with unfamiliar names. The apron-clad barista who, sensing a sale, enthusiastically explained what a dirty was to this ignorant coffee enthusiast. I remember feeling intrigued, deciding to try, polishing it off all too quickly.

“I can’t believe you still remember that. It’s so long ago.” I take a sip of my umpteenth dirty and look up at dad.

“Yes it was.” Our eyes lock and suddenly we’re back at Siam Paragon, reliving our shared memory of the first dirty I ever had.

The memories we make

I wonder if, years from now, I’ll remember today’s casual exchange with dad during my month-long visit home—this spontaneous, brief conversation that sparked a rediscovery of a moment almost lost, another piece of my dad to add to my soon-finite bank of memories of him: when he was supremely delighted with a delicately crafted matcha latte I had treated him to, when we laughed until we cried at my quip that able-bodied people parked in disabled spots are “ethically disabled,” when he broke into a smile as he opened his belated birthday present and saw I’d bought him earphones, an essential now that he spends most of his days watching Netflix in bed.

I wonder if, years from now, I’ll remember yesterday laughing with my mom about how fake all the sets look in the daily Korean drama we’ve been watching together for the past three weeks, how the family members absurdly sit on only one side of the dining table so they can be filmed in one shot, how small Seoul must be that everybody is conveniently bumping into people they’re not supposed to every other episode.

I wonder if, years from now, I’ll remember smiling when I saw earlier this week that my partner, who I’ve left behind in HCMC, had added me as an item to buy on our shared online shopping list because I’ve “gone missing.”

I wonder if, years from now, I’ll remember telling my boss this morning that I’m going to go all-in on our newsletter growth once I’m back from Thailand, that after two months of learning the ropes I now feel confident to innovate, and him saying he’s looking forward to seeing what I come up with.

I wonder if, years from now, I’ll remember having the idea for this post and tearing up as I think of all the memories I’ll no longer make with the people I love once they leave this world.

The things I remember

I don’t know how many of today’s shared moments will engrave themselves in my mind, become lasting memories to cherish until the end of my days. But here’s some of the things I do remember from three and a half decades of life.

Lunch with my late grandparents who always used to pick me up from my Saturday piano lessons, and afterwards the pair of them dozing off on the couch as I enthusiastically subjected them to my favourite movie of the week and failed to comprehend why they didn’t enjoy Bring It On as much as I did.

Dad’s prolonged yet unsuccessful attempt to instill in me a love of sports and the outdoors in numerous badminton, swimming, and gardening sessions which I’ve only come to appreciate now that he’s wrecked by cancer and we can no longer enjoy physical activities together.

Mom’s handwritten note that she asked me to read on the plane when my parents came to see me off for my flight to the UK to study abroad at the age of seventeen—a treasured piece of paper I’ve kept to this day.

Looking into my partner’s eyes not two months after we’d met and realising, right there in that dimly lit corner of a Thong Lor bar, that I’d found the home I’d never hoped for.

Sending a No. 1 New York Times bestselling—and my favourite—author a string of emails after he interviewed me for a role with unsolicited corrections and clarifications for the points I felt I’d botched up in our call, and him remarking in the offer email that arrived a day later that my “deluge” of follow-up emails demonstrated I had the requisite passion for the position.

What do you think?

These are the things I remember now, and hope to for the rest of my life. How about you?

What do you remember?

What memories do you hope never to forget? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone you’ll always remember.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

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Photo by pariwat pannium on Unsplash