Memory, Architecture, and What Remains

A chance encounter with a student obsessed with New York's skyline sparks a reflection on memory, architecture, and the things we fear losing—what remains and what fades away.

7 minute read

Lately, I’ve been losing pieces of my past—small things, big things, all of it. And it scares me.

A conversation I had last week I simply can’t quite recall. The name of a restaurant I know I’ve been to—vanished. A book recommendation someone gave me that’s already slipped through the cracks.

I used to think memory was permanent, like a skyline—a structure built to last. But now, I’m not so sure. Some things remain, sharp and defined. Others disappear without warning, like buildings demolished overnight.

A friend (code word for therapist) recently encouraged me to start journaling. “Write things down before you forget them,” she offered.

Ugh… I thought. I hate journaling. And yet, here I am, doing exactly what she suggested—writing down these moments in what I now call Driven By Stories. Because some things deserve to be remembered.

And then suddenly a ding and a ping from my phone pulls me back. Airport run, my favorite.

I accept the ride and glance down to find the pickup location. The streets are quiet, caught between the last late-night stragglers and the coming new year. The idea that there are late-night stragglers the day prior to New Year’s Eve makes me smile. Incidentally, New Year’s Eve Eve? I call it New Year’s Adam. Because Adam comes before Eve. I know. It’s a terrible joke, but I stand by it. Now those are some real ‘professional’, ‘committed’, (substance abusing?) partiers… Those who go out before the big night, but then my mind returns. I follow the familiar route toward the pin on my screen, my mind still circling the thought of those partiers and the things that disappear.

I pull up to the curb. My passenger is already waiting. He’s thin with straight black hair and has a big backpack slung over one shoulder. He slips into the back seat, settling in as I tap the screen to start the ride.

"Happy New Year's Eve," I say.

"Happy New Year," he replies, his accent thick but confident.

I confirm his destination. "Going anywhere good?"

"New York," he says. "For the big ball drop."

“That’s amazing,” I declare.

We begin to chat. He’s young. I’d guess early twenties, a UW-Madison student studying computer science, polite but full of anticipation.

"First time?" I ask.

He nods. "I want to see the buildings."

Not the crowds. Not the celebration. The buildings.

That catches me off guard. "What kind of buildings?"

He shrugs, then smiles. "Not small ones," he says after a thoughtful pause.

I laugh. "Fair enough."

The streetlights blur past us. My thoughts begin to wander again, slipping back into the cracks between remembering and forgetting.

I ask if he likes Frank Lloyd Wright and whether he’ll see the Guggenheim. He says he’ll go, but not inside.

"The real art is outside," the student says suddenly, pulling me back. "The art inside can be from anywhere. The inside can be anything. But the true value of how a city appreciates culture is based on the architecture outside."

His words settle over me, shifting something in my mind.

He tells me he’s from Suzhou, a city near Shanghai, famous for its canals and ancient gardens. But when he talks about it, there’s no nostalgia in his voice. He speaks about the past like a foundation—something strong but not something to stay on. His fascination is with what comes next.

"New York," he says again, stretching out the word, like saying it makes the city more real. "I want to see it. The skyline is," he hesitates, searching for the right word, “infinite!”

His face lights up, and I ask if he’s been to Chicago.

His smile widens. "Yes! Of course!"

And suddenly a memory transports me; I’m somewhere else.

Chicago, 2000. A river architecture tour with my mom and a boyfriend I barely think about anymore. I remember learning about two of the three great 20th-century architects—Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies Van Der Rohe—but forgetting the third.

Damn it. Who is the third? Sure, I could just JFGI (Just F*cking Google It), but what fun would that be? And naturally, it would hit me at 2 a.m. when there was no one to impress—Le Corbusier. Sigh…

It’s odd what memory holds onto. Names rarely escape me, but details do.

And that’s what worries me. The gaps. The spaces between what I know and what I’ve already lost.

His excitement brings me back.

"The skyline tells a city’s story," the student says. "Even after everything inside has changed."

I glance in the rearview mirror. He’s looking out the window, watching Madison’s low skyline slip past.

It sticks with me—the way he sees permanence where I see impermanence.

I ask if he’s nervous about traveling—about coming back.

He shakes his head. "No. I am lucky. I have what I need. Papers. Everything proper."

A pause. Then, quieter, "And if I get stuck, I will… figure it out."

He is neither fearful nor defiant—just practical.

At the airport, I ask if he needs help, as I always do. He thanks me, smiles, and disappears into the terminal.

I pull away, circling the airport loop, thinking about architecture and memory—the way they can disappear or seemingly last forever.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing Driven By Stories. Not because I love journaling—I don’t. But because some things shouldn't simply disappear in the rearview mirror.