Back in 2014, I boarded a train from New York City to go back home. It was packed, the skies were overcast, and the air was as though it could downpour at any moment. The only seat available before the first stop was across from me, and I hoped that no one would take it. I prefer to be undisturbed on planes, trains, or buses, if I can help it. When I travel, I put on a slightly-sour face in the hope that others won't bother me. You can call that a learned behavior from the numerous times I've been in NYC. It's not a reflection of a sour personality, but rather just wanting to be left alone.
Not today, though. A pregnant woman shuffled over to my seat and sat herself down after I offered to help her with her belongings. She caught me glancing at her stomach and chuckled, saying, "Two months to go." I couldn't help but laugh at my own innate curiosity and slight inappropriateness, so I apologized. She playfully remarked that she's gotten far worse and less-polite treatment from other curious eyes. That lighthearted exchange kickstarted a conversation that lasted for nearly an hour. We talked about her pregnancy and marriage - her husband was waiting for her back home (he was a nursing home caretaker), they didn't know the baby's gender (they wanted it to be a surprise), and that it was their second attempt at having a child after the first ended in miscarriage (she would have been named Emily).
And then, as only random conversations can, we went in many directions. We talked about what it meant to be a parent (I hope to be a father one day), her fear at her new child not surviving either (perfectly understandable), and whether her first child exists in Heaven and forgives her for not being able to deliver to term (she said, "Could God see what she would grow up to be?"). We also talked about myself, why I was on the train (returning from a visit with my grandmother), what I do (music college student), and whether I had a special someone in my life (I didn't). Other things we discussed included Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World" (we both find the ending to be so haunting) and the fact that Derek Jeter was retiring from baseball that year. I was stunned that someone else had seen Errol Morris's Gates of Heaven documentary. We laughed, we got serious, we listened.
Time simply flew by. Her stop arrived before mine did. As she got up to leave, I helped her with her luggage. As we disembarked, I asked her, "What made you want to talk with me?" She answered, "You seemed nice, and you were. Plus, I was bored." If she had other reasons, I never learned what they were. I had to wonder, given the gravity of some of the topics we discussed. We had to hurry our goodbye since the train attendant reminded me that my stop had not arrived yet and that they'd be departing soon. Back in my seat, no one sat across from me for the rest of the ride. After that conversation, I wouldn't have wanted anyone else there but her.
Even now after all this time, I still remember that conversation vividly. I remember her name (Carol), her auburn hair, the slight crookedness of her thick-rimmed brown glasses, and her husky voice with a hearty laugh. Thinking back, there were many other things I wish we could have talked about. Everything was so spontaneous and took on a life of its own.
Why did I tell this long, drawn-out story? Because it's precisely what Memories of Emanon reminded me of. A seemingly-incidental encounter that, I'm convinced, will last a lifetime. Memory is a rather peculiar thing - it will sometimes remember the most nonsensical, meaningless things, while other times it may grasp at straws trying to parse out any little detail it can of a fading recollection that you are convinced is important. But if it was, why can't you remember it...?
For Emanon, the girl blessed / cursed with memories of life lasting billions of years, she cannot forget. Her story is in and of itself so fantastical, but she sees it as a kind of burden. It takes someone with a taste for the fantastical to cause her to re-examine how she sees her "gift." In part because her powers demand it, she'll surely remember the conversation. Yet, not all memories, even those we recall with perfect accuracy, are equal in meaning - however, as the ending clearly shows, the ones that mean a great deal are extra special. Much like Angel's Egg exploring faith's or belief's power, Memories of Emanon takes the intangible and demonstrates its ability to shape our perception of reality and our place in it.
Your memories and experiences have made you who you are. That doesn't mean every memory is pleasant, nor that you won't endure hard times. But to live at all, to remember anything at all, is itself a beautiful thing. If you are to make memories, make them count, and make them worth remembering.
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Stories like Memories of Emanon remind me why I adore science-fiction. The fantasy element is merely the window dressing for allowing a deep, forensic look at so many facets of human existence. This short story of two people talking on a boat, each listless in their own way, manages to weave a captivating story of purpose, change, and sadness with a speck of light. It is not a perfect story to be sure, but what is here is so life-affirming and rich, both thematically and artistically on the page, that I will, like that train conversation I had, never forget it.
And Carol, on the extraordinary off-chance that you're reading this, I sincerely hope that you, and your child, are well. Let's talk about Huxley again one day, shall we?
~Emanon