I squeeze on a ticket while traveling on a train hurtling towards downtown Seattle. I grip my ticket while I shakily hold up my phone to attempt to capture the images I see from the window. Colorful murals on concrete walls turn into blurs on my screen. The ticket will end up in the same box as all the other travel mementos. It will live with the collection of receipts, napkins, brochures, candy wrappers, bottle caps, newspapers. I will find it someday, looking at the faded ink: Aug-08-19. Adult. 3.00 ONE WAY. From: SeaTac/Airport. To: Westlake/Seattle. Direction: North.
That’s how I will remember I took the train.
I will later forget about the two ladies who sat behind me- so painfully from Los Angeles - and the bicyclists zooming on cracked sidewalks. There is no proof of them existing. No ticket, no photo, no receipt. Their images will linger within my brain for a short period, but will fail to etch itself into my mind. They will dissolve from the fragile fragments of my memory, much like my fading train ticket.
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The human brain kind of works like this: there’s a part of the brain called the hippocampus, which controls the story of the self. It stores information from the when, the where, the what. Paired with the eyes, the most influential in memory creation, visual information will trigger memories in a person’s brain. There’s a complicated map of where this information runs and how the eye connects with the brain. Information bounces throughout the brain where it ends up in the hippocampus. That's when memories are triggered. A small visual trigger can unlock a full story in a matter of seconds. That’s why when I see my receipt from Wood Stone Pizza in Fayetteville, Arkansas, 7:34 pm, I will remember that I tried pimento cheese for the first time.
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The evergreen forests of the northwest turn into red earth tones as we barrel across the state. Whispy clouds circle through the bright sky. Windmills dancing across the hills of a barren wasteland isn’t the idea of Washington that's seen in picture books.
Backseat photographer.
That’s how I will remember this car ride.
I will remember the crank of my old camera and us going too fast on the highway. I will remember that we were stuck in traffic, but I won’t remember our conversations. I won’t remember the car snacks, but I will remember the playlist, to a certain degree. I play tourist. I fervently take photos out of the window. I must document this experience so I don’t forget.
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I am in a van. It is black. I will forget what the inside looks like. I will remember crossing into Idaho, but I won’t remember crossing into Montana. I remember a truck stop, 50,000 Silver Dollar, because I bought a postcard adorned with a photo of the 50,000 Silver Dollar truck stop. I also bought a drink, but I don’t remember what. I remember the sun gliding along my face while on the backroads of the mountains, but I also may be thinking of another time.
We are creeping up the road that will take us to the sun. I roll down the window for better shots as the car fills with cold mountain air. I will remember how the breeze felt on my flushed face, but I won’t remember the smell. I will remember the shaky knees and hands as we edge along the curb. I will remember the fog. I will not remember the mountain goat, but I will remember the wet air. We pull over. I step out of the car and take a few deep breaths. I need to remember this moment; the fleeting feeling of being calm, the silence, and fresh air. The gleaming and grand mountains that are in front of us. I will remember buying a cup at Logan’s Pass Visitor Center once we got to the top.
That’s how I’ll remember this moment.
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I have been here before. It wasn’t long ago, but it feels like a lifetime has happened since then. The Montana sun feels the same as it did before. The first time I saw buffalo but we will not see one now. Before I stayed for a long time. I needed to stay; I needed to document my feelings as I watched the shadows roll across the hills. I remember figuring out the fog and fuzziness in my thoughts at that moment. I remember sorting out how to fix it. I remember forgetting it all immediately.
I try again now. I need to document this time, I need to figure out what’s going on inside my mind. Photos will help. I pull out my phone too, just in case. That will help. Right?
I need to remember the sunset. I need to remember the flies buzzing against the light. I need to remember the air, the temperature. I need to remember how I felt before. But all I can recall are the pictures and a fading receipt for gas.
I need to remember experiencing this moment. I am experiencing this moment, right? I am anchoring myself to this place in time, my surroundings, my emotions. I fervently change the film, as so I don't lose any of the sun. I need the photos to remind me how it was.
That’s how I will remember this moment.