On St Andrews

remembering

The map of the town’s streets are carved into my internal compass. But when I approach the iconic cathedral, I can’t remember if the face of the ruins closest to the street always had one tower or if there were two when I lived here. Did it fall down? Was it already falling when I lived here? What fissures remain invisible to us until it’s too late? How is it possible that I can’t remember? Why does that bother me so much?

I ascribe the ability to remember with a closeness. Like if my memory is sharp, accurate, it validates my relationship to it, or maybe just proves my own existence. To me, remembering is a way of living. The erasure of memory, therefore, terrifyingly, is the absence of having existed. Interesting for me to notice this.

My fuzzy recollections and frequent doubt challenge me. I mourn for the image of St Andrews I had imprinted at eighteen, and I ache for the insecure curious person I used to be.

I write a reflection on St Andrews to be read during the wedding ceremony. Writing about a place I consider inextricable from my identity, a place I’ve not returned to in five years, is a challenge. On the front step of my house in Western Pennsylvania under the outstretched arms of a mature oak tree, I gnaw on the cap of my pen and fill page after page in my notebook.

The day before the wedding. I run into people I used to know outside the stationary store. They look like ghosts to me as I reconcile my memories of them with the people standing beside me, asking dull questions like when I got to town and what I did that morning. Blinking, I remember that I am a ghost, too.

I open the draft from my notes app and place my phone on the table in front of Andrew and Ashley at Northpoint Cafe. Our table is silent while they read, but the restaurant is chatty and full of clinking silverware and clattering ceramic plates. In this pause, I genuinely cannot believe that I put these words and sentences together. Ashley tells me that she thinks it’s beautiful, and to me in this moment, that is enough.

At the cocktail reception, a ghost tells me that I should share my piece with the University, that they would probably love to have it. For whatever reason, the only words scrolling through my head in giant red letters is SHUT UP. Instead, I tell him that I definitely won’t share it, not yet anyway, because I know I’m still writing it. There is still more I want to say.

Now I’m home again - “home” - I find myself in a dreamlike state. Maybe it’s just jet lag. But friendship is intoxicating, the edges of myself have softened further and I feel so in love with everything. To be with your best friends? In the place where it all began? Wouldn’t you think you were dreaming?

According to the internet, the north wall of the cathedral fell around the end of the sixteenth century. There’s my answer, I guess. If only I could figure out how to trace back all of the other details of this place which I no longer carry with me. My memory is refreshed from the improbable sunny days I’ve spent in Fife this month. It’s up to me to figure out whether I can retain my closeness to St Andrews while I continue to forget the specificities of the physical place. Like the tides of the North Sea, time will always erode my remembering. I’ll be left with only the words I’ve written, the photos I’ve taken, and my feelings.