Sugar McKenzie and August Wakefield couldn't be more different - Sugar, a meticulous, caring, but lonely paramedic and August, a charming former reality star still chasing his dream. But they've both closed themselves off emotionally from others...t...
"Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future."
- Corrie ten Boom
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The human brain consists of 85 – 100 billion neurons, known as "connectors," that allow the brain to know where any trigger in the body occurred. Neurologists researched and conducted studies on brain soup to determine these numerical answers. And yet, neurologists had no concrete answer to the age-old question: "Where are memories stored?"
I took detailed notes when my professor touched upon the basics about the brain. The lectures took place in a week's time. Paramedics needed to comprehend and recognize symptoms of head damage. For example, I had to identify if a patient had a concussion, brain hemorrhage, or traumatic brain injury (TBI), which as a paramedic, I had to help slow down the injury. Later, surgeons discovered and solved the issue at the hospital in a safe and clean environment.
I recalled the material. Fascinated and desired to know more. From academic studies and articles, I got the impression that the mind was a foggy, unpredictable territory. Scientists tested out their hypothesis and received data to reach a verdict; then the process began again to achieve a crisper version.
Memories were a part of that territory. Neurologists knew how the entire brain reacted, left and right hemisphere, but didn't know the exact location and how memories happen. At that moment, I knew how the memories occurred.
Words.
A simple sentence from a stranger.
"I'm sorry about your mother."
What does he mean he's sorry, he doesn't know anything.
I recalled our introduction. There were short messages on TrueMatch between us before we met. However, I mentioned Mama when I talked about my name. Of which, he laughed. My knuckles turned white.
He doesn't mean it.It's all formality.
I looked away. My eyes scanned outside. Anywhere, but his eyes. A woman and a child. They were ice skating. The girl's pigtails had ice shavings on the tips. Her knees hit the cold surface. Her face scrunched up, and her small button nose turned scarlet.
The woman reached out towards the girl's hand. Her lips moved; her smile shone through her eyes. The girl took the woman's gloved hand. Mama taught me how to ice skate.
Mama and Papa owned a five-acre property. The long commute was ideal in the rural area: croaking frogs, sing-song birds, buzzing bees, and even the annoying squeaking cicadas. The mature two-story house continued to live. The faded purple window-panels, emerald moss patches on the side of the house, and burning bushes planted in front of the porch created a peaceful sensation.
I recalled Papa's hideaway. He prompted his feet up on the foot bench as he sat on the porch. He watched the sun go down past the golden horizon. The gravel driveway connected us to the real world. A man-made pond took up the front yard. Cattails clustered on the right side of the small hill. Frogs and toads croaked from their hiding spots. In the winter, the water froze. The first year I lived with them, Mama told me not to set foot on that pond.
