Beautiful Memory

 by Kinovych M.

As I remember myself I always have problems with my memory. It is impossible for me to remember everything that somebody said to me, I can’t tell the difference between Bach and Beethoven because I hardly can remember their music. But what the really odd thing with my memory is that I remember all faces that I have ever seen.


 People call this “photography memory”, but this is not true. Photo is static picture that imprint some event in paper. My memory is not a camera – I remember people’s faces in “movement”:  I don’t remember only hairstyle or clothes, each detail (from shape of eyes to wrinkles on the forehead) is stamped on my memory and I’m sure, I will recognize this person in one or even in ten years after. Firstly, this talent wasn’t destructive for me.
 My house was situated in the dormitory area, where only five or seven families lived . I knew them all and I very seldom saw a new face there. The situation changed when I had grown up and had to use the public transport. It was a mental shock for me to see a lot of new faces in one place and in one moment. I look at those people eagerly and with curiosity. They were very different: with small eyes, long noses, fat and slim, beautiful and ugly. I remembered them all and in one moment they became very close and special for me. I imagined that woman, who had a big basket with apples and charming chubby cheeks, may smile to me and give one juicy fruit in my hand. That guy near the doors with huge hands and unshaved face may be a mechanic and I can talk with him about cars and technique.
All that faces crowded my inner world and stayed there forever. With them I’ve never have been alone. I greedily look for new people, when I was bored with all my “old friends” and vice versa I liked to meet somebody whom I haven’t seen for a long time and found out that she dyed her hair or he had a new coat. In this situation I didn’t need to have a real friendship and this was nice because nobody could offend me.
 In my dreams I was happy with them so one day I accidentally started to say hello to everybody I remembered and asked them questions like “How is your dog, mister?” or “Did you buy that jacket, mam?” To my pettiness, nobody understood me:  almost all didn’t answer me and tried to walk away, somebody laughed at me, somebody was angrily asked: “Who are you?” That question was the most offensive for me. Who am I? I’m the person, whom you see every day in the bus, I remember your face, know your movements and habits, so why don’t you remember me?