It’s strange what comes out of difficult conversations. Coming out of one last night, having almost nothing to do with the topics talked about — I woke up thinking about my memory.
I have a sporadic but vivid memory. In high school, I could see the pages of the textbook when taking a test. (Mind you all of it promptly disappeared after the test, so it was lose-lose for both me and the public educational system.)
But now I think about what I still remember. I can’t remember what I ate yesterday. Or what I wore last week. I don’t remember anyone’s birthdays except my family’s (three people.) I don’t remember events that’s all in the calendar. I don’t remember to water my plants I have a reminder for that.
But I do remember the time I fell asleep in kindergarten, and yelled “CHOCOLATE MILK” during roll call.
I remember the gold velvet suit Raphael Saddiq wore when I saw him in concert.
I remember the orange shag carpet in my uncle’s brown van. We used to take road trips to other family during the summer. I would sit in the front on the cup holders in the middle. My other uncle telling me what the number markers on the highway meant. How many miles had already past. I remember when we would stop at rest areas, and my mom would plug in the rice cooker.
There’s many things I forget all the time now, but the things that still there are vivid and detailed.
I couldn’t ask for more from my memory that it holds on to the precious thing: the stories.
Dynamic Hypocrisy 