刪不掉的錄音

It’s been about three months since things ended， and for the most part， I try to avoid the 1）remnants of him. I threw out his old toothbrush. I don’t go to our favorite bar where we had our first date. When I have to be in his neighborhood， I refuse to walk down his street. I don’t listen to the radio on Sundays， because that’s something we would do together and now the sound of our favorite announcer’s voice 2）makes my skin crawl.

But for some reason， I just can’t delete this one digital file. This stupid reminder of a thing I don’t even remember in the first place.

We spent our last weekend wandering around the city. It was one of those glorious spring weekends where you finally start to let yourself believe that the warmer weather is here to stay. I remember standing at the crosswalk on Prince Street waiting for the light to change， his arms wrapping around me like a heavy knit wool sweater in winter. We walked all the way to Brooklyn Bridge Park and sat opposite the sparkling East River， laughing at the toddlers with their 3）faux hawks and their leather high tops. We went to a concert. We stopped into a comedy show. We vowed to do more and to see more. We found that amazing bar where the taps had metal pipes for handles. I can still taste that dark， chocolaty beer with just a hint of cherry swirling on my tongue.

I’ve heard people say that when you’re about to die， your whole life flashes before your eyes. But this death was of a thing， not a person. And the memories rushing in were what I was left with that following Saturday afternoon when he walked into my apartment， kissed me on the mouth， sat me down on my bed， and with my hands in his， told me it was over.

It was more than I could comprehend. Some days， it still is. I find myself searching for him on the sidewalk and in my mind. And once I start 4）rummaging through those old microfilms of memory， it’s hard to make myself stop.

Suddenly， I remember the recording.

I make documentary-style radio pieces， and am prone to recording sound a lot—not always with fancy gear， sometimes just with an app on my phone. And I record a lot， always with an ambitious plan that one day I’ll do something with it. I usually don’t. But for me， to hit record is to feel alive， to be moved to capture the times and places when I am happy and inspired—so much so that I want to take the moment home with me， so that later， I can go through my cherished collections like shiny pebbles brought home from the playground.

A few weeks before the big breakup， I decided to 5）take the plunge and upgrade the operating system on my iPhone. I was annoyed because this meant clearing 3 6）gigabytes of valuable podcast space， or the other sound files I had cluttering the corners—the mother I’d followed through the European gallery at the 7）Met， trying to discuss art theory with her young daughters in front of 8）Monets and 9）Renoirs； a particularly beautiful 10）busker on the 2 train； a 11）snippet of conversation， mostly filled with laughter， from my grandfather’s birthday celebration last year （it was a little late， the family was a little drunk）. None of these files are recorded particularly well—you can barely hear the action above the jumbled 12）ambient noise and the sound that clumsy fingers， surprised to be recording， make when they grip a microphone. Call me sentimental， call me a sound hoarder， but these little bundles of ones and zeros bring a smile to my face.

So I’m carefully combing through my portable catalogue to determine what I could live without， and that’s how I found it： 34 seconds of something called “drew dog beach.” I pressed play.

What you’re hearing might not sound like much， but for me， listening to this clip transports me to a place with weight and dimension and color. It’s mostly me trying to get my microphone-shy boyfriend to talk， to tell me what he feels in this moment when the relationship is new and everything seems right and beautiful. He’s laughing at me because I’m being ridiculous， although he was always a man of few， well-chosen words. And then there’s the kiss. He probably kisses me to get me to stop trying to make him talk. I guess it worked， because that’s where the recording cuts off. But it’s a sound so sweet， and so genuine. In an instant， I smell saltwater， grass， and his shampoo. I feel skin and the late summer air and the feeling of not being afraid to be completely myself in front of someone I care about.

But the thing is； I have absolutely no memory of this even happening. I don’t remember taking this recording. I don’t remember being there. Drew dog beach？ I gave it that name， but I have no idea what it means. The file has a date on it， but I wouldn’t have needed that to know it’s a scene from early in our relationship. It was late summer and Drew and I would take night walks along the Hudson， the sound of crickets 13）reverberating all the way to the 14）Palisades. It was a habit that started on our first date. We left the bar， dizzy on sour ale and nerves， and headed for the water， fumbling at expressing how we were feeling with our words and our limbs.

But something stuck， and things were good. Our river walks continued through the winter. We’d stand on the pier， huddled in down， watching drifts of snow make rippling patterns in the wind before disappearing off the ledge and into the angry， gray water. It’s hard to think of now， but it was a happy time. So I remember what it felt like to be in those 34 seconds of sound. But the actual experience is gone from my memory. And to listen to it， to be reminded of something I lost and miss， is 15）agony.

I’ve been grasping at 16）shreds of what I do recall， trying to solve the mystery of how this sound bite even exists. Lately my line of questioning has turned from how do I have it to why am I saving it. Is this recording a gift， a souvenir of a time that I loved？ Or is it there to remind me that I’m still sad？ If I delete it， will I be free of this memory that I don’t actually have？

Until I decide， it sits on my phone， a handprint in cement， evidence that we existed. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to erase it， the cement melting into sand， the handprint blurring in the rising tide.

戀情告終，一切塵埃落定至今已近三個月。我做過很多努力，想要消除他留下的痕跡。我扔掉了他的舊牙刷，不去我們最愛的酒吧——那里是我們第一次約會的地方。必須去他居住的那片街區(qū)時，我避免走過他所住的那條街道。我不在周日聽廣播，因為那是我們過去常常一起做的事，而如今，我倆最喜歡的那個主持的嗓音讓我毛骨悚然。

但是出于某種原因，我就是無法做到將這段手機中的錄音刪掉。一開始，我甚至對其毫無印象，但它卻成為了一個討厭的提醒，讓我回憶起那件事。

那是我們在一起的最后一個周末，當(dāng)時我倆就在這個城市漫步。那是某個明媚的春日周末，那種時候，你終于開始相信天氣確實要轉(zhuǎn)暖，不會再冷起來了。我記得，當(dāng)時站在王子街的人行橫道上，等著交通燈轉(zhuǎn)換顏色，他的手臂環(huán)抱著我，就像冬日里一件厚重的羊毛針織衫。我們一路走到布魯克林大橋公園，然后坐在波光粼粼的東河對面，被蹣跚學(xué)步的孩子們頭上的仿莫霍克發(fā)型和高幫皮靴逗得哈哈大笑。我們?nèi)タ戳艘粓鲆魳窌?，駐足觀看了一個喜劇表演。我們發(fā)誓要做更多的事情，看更多的東西。我們發(fā)現(xiàn)了一家令人驚艷的酒吧，那里的龍頭把手是用金屬管子做的?，F(xiàn)在我還能感覺到那濃稠的巧克力味啤酒，帶著一絲櫻桃香停留在舌尖上的味道。

我曾聽過有人說，人臨死前的那一瞬間，整個人生會匆匆閃過眼前。但此刻的逝去不是人，而是情事?！?br>