Remember me this way

There’s a line from an old Disney song — “Remember me this way” — that sneaks into my head on quiet evenings and noisy reunions alike. It belongs to a story about ghosts and childhood magic, but for me it’s never been about spooks or spells. It’s about memory lanes, the people who shaped my small world, and the gentle hope that somewhere, somehow, they still carry a piece of me with them.

When I was little, friendships felt effortless — scraped knees were patched with band-aids and secrets were traded like treasures. We were a collection of shared snacks and whispered dares, of afternoons that stretched on forever. As I grew, so did the shape of those friendships: some grew into the sturdy, daily kind we lean on; some splintered and drifted like leaves on separate streams. Still, when I walk down memory lane, I see faces lit with sunlight, hear laughter that used to sound like applause for my best ideas, and remember how safe everything felt when we were together.

I hope, in the way people hope about small, impossible things, that the friends I loved then are living well now — healthy, awake to the beauty tucked inside ordinary days. I wish them steady jobs and messy kitchens, cozy evenings and a handful of mornings full of promise. I wish them the ordinary kind of happiness that sticks around even when the extraordinary fades.

And selfishly, I wish they remember me. Not as some perfect version frozen in time, but as the person who once knew them so deeply that their laugh was a map to home. I hope they recall the little arguments that felt colossal, the silly nicknames, the way we picked each other up after bad days. I hope they remember the version of me who believed in forever — even if forever turned out to be a different shape than we expected.

If we meet again someday, I don’t need everything to be pristine or dramatic. Give me real: the slightly awkward handshake, the catch-up that starts with weather and ends in shared tears, the way old jokes fall flat at first and then find their rhythm. Let me see the lines on their face and tell me the stories behind them. I’ll tell mine too — about who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I became in between.

I am still loyal. That doesn’t mean I never moved on, or that I don’t have my own scars and triumphs. Loyalty, for me, looks like carrying people in my chest when I can’t carry them in my day-to-day life. It looks like cheering from the margins, reserving a soft place in my heart for them when the rest of the world is loud. It’s the quiet promise that if someone I loved needs me, I’ll try to be there — even if life has rearranged our addresses and calendars.

Remember me this way: as someone who loved fiercely, who stumbled but kept going, who learned that time doesn’t erase feeling — it refines it. Remember me in a photograph where we’re both laughing, in a text message that comes out of the blue, in the way you find yourself smiling over a shared memory. If you can, remember me as a line in your story that once made your days brighter.

And if you’re reading this and thinking of a friend you haven’t spoken to in years — send a message. Say hello. Ask how they’re doing. We’re all walking memory lanes, sometimes alone, sometimes in company. A single hello can convert a distant “maybe someday” into a small, real reunion.

Remember me. Not as a ghost. Not as a perfect past. Remember me as someone who once made a little space in your life, and who would still like to find their way back into it — in whatever gentle, imperfect form that takes.