text: I was the first to recommend the procedure to him. The technology had been around for a few years at that point, but at first I was too afraid to ask him. To me it felt unnatural, and to erase memories was, but I would have tried anything. I’d seen what grief had done to Patrick. Anything would be better than what he was then. &#x200B; I’d watched as the family went from the two of us to three, and then suddenly back down to two again. And six years after that it was only me. After the fire, when Patrick moved back into the house with me, I was forced to watch as he faded into no one. His body became thin. His hair became thin. It turned grey. Everyday he looked more like dust. &#x200B; That night, I stood over him shaking the pamphlet in my hand and begged him in a raised voice, “Please, consider it. It’s been six years and I don’t see any end, and it hurts me to see you in so much pain, but you don’t have to fight it anymore.” “And I envy the fact that you don’t feel so empty all the time,” He spat from his armchair. I walked back to my chair and sat down across from him again, resigned. I sighed, “If I could bear your pain, I would do it in an instant. You know that Patrick... I’d be a terrible father if I didn’t. But I don’t know how much longer I can see you this way, and...” I gestured at the collection of unopened envelopes on the coffee table, “this is still piling up.” He stormed out of the room. &#x200B; I sat in on one of his therapy sessions after I first suggested the procedure. That’s how I learned that his friends had left him because he had been “too depressed to be around.” When he said it, he looked to check if I was still in the corner of the room before he turned back to Dr. Kuntz to speak. I couldn’t help but notice how old he looked: he was thirty-three. Patrick continued on: “But there’s this notion of happiness, that it’s a flowing, unending. Pure ecstasy that fills every crack. That’s not true though, the cracks don’t get filled. They exist on the edges, because to be filled with a single emotion is, well, boring. The cracks are what define you and remind you what it means to be a person...” There was a pause of silence, all of us understanding his reservations on part of his person being erased, because of course his fears were valid, and it wasn’t Dr. Kuntz’s or my decision to make. Then Dr. Kuntz said, “But what your so-called ‘cracks’ drain every emotion you’ve got until all that’s left is emptiness?” &#x200B; In the end, Patrick decided that it was for the best. And I was the one to gather all the photos, tokens, anything that might have significance to him. I was the one to do the erasing. I scoured the house for anything that might remind him of *her*, but most of what Patrick and Quinn had owned was lost in the fire. I created a small pile on the kitchen table. Bits of paper with her name on them, photographs of the two, a few metal trinkets. Patrick walked through the doorway while I arranged the memories, and spun around when he realized what I was doing. In the end, every piece of their life together fit neatly inside a small wooden box. When I told Patrick I finished, he came in and left a letter and their wedding ring on top of the wooden box. The night before the operation, I went out into our backyard, dug a hole and buried the box, covering the hole up so it was indistinguishable from the rest of the yard, all while I wept and Patrick tried to sleep. &#x200B; When we arrived at the clinic, we were met with the jeers and howls of a handful of protestors. I tried to usher him from the car to the doors with my arm around his waist. I tried to take his attention away from the signs, but even I couldn’t help but glimpse the word “unnatural” on one of them as we walked past. Right by the door, a balding man in his forties hissed in my ear, “You’re erasing yourself. You’re giving up.“ I ignored him, but at that moment I was reminded of a quote by the writer Osamu Dazai: “Is non-resistance a sin?” &#x200B; The operating room was lit with harsh fluorescent lights and smelled sickeningly of disinfectant. White floors, white walls, white lights. The doctor walked in wearing a white lab coat. And I held Patrick’s hand as he recapped the basic procedure with him, but I don’t think either of us were listening. “The next thing you know, you’ll be waking up in your house,” he said to Patrick. I helped him onto the operating table. The doctor flipped a switch on the side of the table and a howling whir of machinery began to start up. He said, “Dad, I’m scared.” I squeezed his hand even harder as they slipped the anesthetic mask over his mouth. The hiss of gas added to the noise, the whirs, and high-voltage hums of the room, and I felt myself going faint. Before a masked nurse ushered me out of the room, I said to Patrick, “A lot’s going to change.” &#x200B; I don’t have many videos of Patrick as a young child since it’s always been the two of us, but do have one I watch alone every once in a while. There’s no audio, but in the video, he’s four or five, and I’m chasing him around on the lawn of our old house. He’s laughing silently and at one point he trips, and I pretend like I’m going to grab him. Just as I close my hands around his leg, he gets back up again, smiling. &#x200B; That afternoon, he woke up in his armchair at home to me sitting across from him, as the doctors had instructed me to do. The sun shone through the translucent curtains and bathed the room in a soft light. A summer breeze rustled the room. Patrick gave me a questioning look. “How long was I asleep for?” He asked. I looked up from my book as I shut it. “Not too long,” I said, “Do you remember falling asleep?” After a pause, he said, “No, I feel... like I’ve been in a deep sleep.” “Probably just the grogginess,” I replied, my voice getting shakier with every word. “Would you like to make us some tea for the afternoon?” Patrick nodded and walked out of the room. I looked out through the french doors and thought of the wooden box buried in the yard--that part of Patrick he had bestowed upon me to keep: almost an equal exchange, but not quite. Not quite because my life was almost over and I could bear the knowledge he lacked so that his life... could begin again. A tear came to my eye. &#x200B; This is what Patrick’s letter--buried deep underground--read: *Dear Quinn,* *They’re going to do an operation on my brain that will erase all my memory of you. You know I would do anything to bring you back, but I can’t fight it anymore. I’m just not strong enough to carry all the guilt and pain and anguish, and I’m sorry for that. Everynight, I wish it had been me who had died that night in the fire.* *This has been the most painful decision in my life. You made me who I am, and brought me love that I didn’t think possible to feel, but I think that you would want me to be well. I am going to try to live again.* *Maybe I’ll see you again soon. Until then, thank you for all the years of happiness.* *Sending you all my love,* *Patrick* &#x200B; I sat in my armchair and listened to the muffled thuds of cabinets opening and closing, the clink of ceramic mugs on the counter, the hiss of the water-boiler, and through my own quiet sobs of both sadness and relief, I heard Patrick too. It was difficult to make out, but it sounded like he was humming a tune that I hadn’t heard in years.