My memory isn’t what it used to be, and never was.
But then, I remember the odd things.
Sitting with old friends, I remind them of the time some
years back when they were renovating their bathroom and found their contractor
sleeping off a hangover in the (dry and empty) bathtub.
“It’s amazing that you remember that,” they say.
Would anyone forget
such a sight, even if relayed second hand?
Walking with a friend, I remind her how ten years ago she enlisted
a city cop to drive us to her car, parked a few blocks away on an empty side
street. We got out of a play and it was dark, and she decided it was unsafe. A
policeman reluctantly gave us a ride in his marked-fully-lit-“cage,” And I told
her that if any of my acquaintances would see us going by I would never forgive
her.
“I forgot all about this,” she said. “You have an amazing
memory.
Dah-ling, it was my
one and only ride in a police car (so far.) Would you have forgotten that?
I remind my husband of the first time we met, when he walked into the textile gallery where I worked . It was
September. He remembers it not at all.
Now, really!
I probably won’t remember your name unless you repeat it a
few times, and then some. I often forget where I parked my car. I consistently manage
to forget at least one essential item from my grocery-shopping list (and forget
the list on the refrigerator.)
But some things, dear September, I remember.
