Places That Forgot Me

There are places that forget you. But you never forget them.

May 27, 2025

By Abigail Elana

As a kid, I had a theory—I always had a theory.

An over thought, over developed theory and I loved this theory that I birthed because it was a product from the deepest parts of me. Theories are where I felt my soul and my body collide in a strange and powerful way. Not that my theories are right, but it took my passion for creativity and over thinking to a new level. A level that made my brain tingle and my heart skip a beat in a weird and nerdy way.

the theory: If we’re made of atoms, and atoms are always moving, maybe they lag behind us like ghost particles—soft remnants clinging to air. I imagined our past selves trailing through the world like stardust (this is also how I reasoned time travel could exist. I would explain but it’s severely undeveloped and would be even more rambling).

I didn’t know if atoms were alive. I still don’t. I’m not a woman in STEM—I’m a woman in spirals, in memory, in maybe. But that theory comforted me: the idea that we leave pieces of ourselves behind. That we’re still out there, flickering through old rooms, tucked inside childhood beds, lingering like breath in the cold. I have always been obsessed with lingering. The in between of being present yet absent. Like a living bookmark ready to intervene or watch intently. Lingering keeps a foot in the door for possibility- just like my theory.

That theory became a way of mourning.

I began to believe I was still everywhere I’d ever been. I’m still getting blisters on the elementary school playground money bars. I’m still sitting on the couch learning unconditional love as I learn how to read those little first readers books with Mom, in all of her safe motherly patience. Still panicking in the school hallway, terrified of being alone as I try not to cry, but ultimately can’t help it.

I feel my past constantly. Maybe that’s why I sometimes shut down—because I’m never just one singular version of myself. My mind is haunted. My own brain’s satellite is over run with versions of me as I move through life. Healing a part of me and feeling the sting of open wounds that still need tending to that i forgot even happend. While I’m asleep, they all compare notes.

Even when I forget, I like to think memories still alive somewhere. That time doesn’t end, it just layers—like sediment, like dust on a shelf, like museum glass thickening over memory.

But here’s the cruel twist: memory decays each time it’s recalled. I read once that every time you revisit a memory, you’re just recalling the last time you remembered it—not the moment itself. So, I can’t help looking at my life through reflections of reflections. Doubling mirrors. Ghost upon ghost. I’m doubling up the glass between me and my own memories like I’m in a distorted museum.

Photo courtesy of Trip Advisor

Every summer, we camped at Ginnie Springs.

My first time, I was thrilled by the idea of tents and foil-cooked food. My mom laughed at me and informed me she would, under absolutely no circumstances, be getting in a tent on the floor. At first this struck me of absurd, counterproductive for camping, really. Now, I remember this moment humorously because I have turned into my mother. I think this is one of the reasons I have become quite a ‘princess’. I don’t mind that term. Surprisingly, it makes me feel like I have self-worth, a standard and expectation for how I am treated. And a true princess returns grace. Now, I wouldn’t dream of skipping the air conditioning either.

We didn’t camp. We “glamped.” And I loved it. I loved the soft couch, the cool air, the way the screen door kept the bugs out but let the laughter in.

We even had golf carts, in all honesty (my warrior princess chariot).

Those trips were golden. My family, my best friend, my aunt and uncle, their kids and boyfriends, and whoever else drifted in for the day.

We had a living room set out outside for socializing. In the mornings everyone would meet there as my uncle cooked breakfast. Throughout the day we would float down the river and freeze in the spring. Whoever was leaving would announce it and whoever want to would follow suit. At night we ate meals that became myth.

It was joy in the purest form… the kind that doesn’t announce itself until it’s already a memory.

I went back last weekend.

Seven years had passed. One cousin had a baby, my aunt has passed away, and my cousins and uncle moved out of the state.

My boyfriend never got to meet my aunt. He never got to experience my family, the moments that truly shaped me- the biggest parts of me. He only saw the ruins. That’s what shakes me the most.

Ginnie Springs forgot me.

The place that once held the brightest versions of me—the most sun-drenched, the most innocent—no longer recognized me. It didn’t feel cruel. Just… unfamiliar.

I enjoyed my time at Ginny Springs, but I am hesitant to go back, to let my memory fade even more. I have nothing but gratitude and love for my boyfriend for a great day together- for reminding the trees of my laughter. I still managed to feel the love of Ginny Springs through him. But the underlying and powerful part of it was the deep sadness I felt filling that hole inside me, and even more so when I think about it as a whole. The more I think about it, the more it curdles. It is something I probably needed, but it is something that I felt replace something I’m clutching so desperately. It pulls me further from my aunt. No matter how logical I try to be, I can’t help but allow the silly little thoughts to infest my brain like that.

The trees used to lean over the water like they were eavesdropping. Now they stand back, as if they’ve forgotten my name. The current that’s carried my body so many times feels slower now, as if the water has lost its passion too.

I tried to move with the rhythm of the leaves, to sync my breath with the swaying trees and melt into the current. To feel nothing but the chilled water beading on my skin. I wanted to belong again, to vanish into something familiar. But the pace was too slow or I was too offbeat. We walked the same sandy path of dirt, and floated down the same spring chilled river. But I wasn’t floating, I was bracing. Clenching. Quietly begging the younger version of me not to look too closely. I shielded every atom I’ve ever been, as if memory itself might recoil at the sight. As if some part of me still believed I could protect her from this.

There used to be a burger place there. The best burgers I’d ever had, and I’m not even a burger girl. But it was gone, replaced by tacos and chicken wings. They were good. Better than good. Still, the absence tasted stronger.

The memory was overwritten. And now, it’s not just the place that’s different, it’s me. I came back with someone I once dreamed of bringing, and instead of joy, I met grief in a swimsuit.

I used to love visiting the horses behind the fence at dusk. I didn’t look for them this time. I didn’t want to know if they were gone too. Whether they were there or not, it would’ve broken me.

I stayed in the river. Let it carry me. Pretending everything was still the same. That the current could return me to the version of myself that once believed in permanence.

I didn’t realize, until now, how much shielding I was really doing. How I kept whispering to my younger self: Don’t look. It’ll be okay.

But it’s not okay. And that’s not Ginnie’s fault. That’s just what happens with memories.

My favorite part of those summers was always dinner. We’d drag the campsite picnic tables into one long, uneven line. String up lights. Burn citronella. My aunt and uncle made spaghetti, and we’d eat and laugh until we couldn’t breathe.

I still make that spaghetti sometimes. I try not to. I don’t want the taste to become associated differently, as a memory. I miss my aunt. More than anything. I miss my family being whole.

There are places that forget you, but you never forget them.