Tuesday, September 30, 2014
What I Remember and What I Don’t
But I can’t remember the current cell phone number for either of my children.
I do remember where I was when the planes crashed on 9/11 and when I heard about the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion.
However, I don’t remember President Kennedy being shot seven weeks after I was born.
I remember a lot of things from my college graduation ceremony.
But I don’t remember finding out that I was accepted into college.
I can’t shake the image of Billy Buckner letting a routine ground ball go between his legs in what should have been the final out of the 1986 World Series, or whose house I watched it at in Cleveland, Ohio, or the premature, tear jerking victory speech I made just before it happened.
Yet I don’t have an image in my mind of my daughter taking her first steps.
I do remember every room in all six houses that we’ve ever owned.
I just can’t remember where we keep the broom in this house.
I remember turning fifty. It was a blast.
I don’t remember turning twenty-one. I assume I got very drunk.
I vividly recall the births of both of my children.
But I can’t remember finding out Kim was pregnant, either time.
I have at least partial memories of when my brother became temporarily blind (I was two and a half years old) and when my father told me about my mother’s accident (five years, eleven months old).
But I can’t remember a joke, not a single joke. And I can’t remember the name of that guy, you know, that guy with the thing…
I remember being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.
But I cannot remember the last time I walked. I haven’t forgotten what it feels like, though, because I still walk in my dreams.
What can you remember? What can’t you?