The Nature of Memory: I Remember

Memory is a funny, fickle thing. When we want to forget things, we can't, and when we want to remember things... we can't. Sometimes, a smell, a piece of music, even a place we haven't seen in so long can coax a plethora of old, dusty memories to assert themselves. Little time machines. Memories of trauma can lead to the development of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and in Alzheimer's patients,    newer memories disappear first, while older, mundane memories resurface.

In fact, from a scientific point of view, there is still so much we don't understand about the nature of memory. What is not debated is how important memories are to us and how influential they can be on us. They define a person and constitute their individuality. The idea of manipulating our memories or having them stolen away from us feels... heinous.

Perhaps the strangest and most precious gift of memory is when you rediscover something you haven't thought about in so long. A time, a place, a feeling, a sense, a being. Sometimes they're sad, sometimes their joyous, but each contributes to the person you are now. Let's do a writing exorcise: Write down as many things as you can starting with "I remember..." in 5 minutes. It's good to revisit old memories, to appreciate them, to cherish them, and to understand a little bit more about yourself.

I Remember 

I remember the fear I felt for my father.

I remember playing in the fountain in the front yard of my grandmother’s neighbor’s house when I was three. I remember playing with the pots and pans in my grandmother’s kitchen cabinets when I was three.

I remember the sound of the frog as it hit the water of Crescent Lake after he threw it from the shore. I remember its guts in its mouth.

I remember the scars on her thighs.

I remember the dream I had the night before last. I remember the car accident, being thrown through the windshield, landing on the hood of the other car, and the partial paralysis. I remember the grief when I realized I wouldn’t be able to perform poetry again. I remember the relief when I woke up.

I remember the necklace I threw to the floor in the hallway in high school, the Christ head with the engraving on the back that my godmother gave me when I was born. I never saw it again.

I remember the guilt when I let the wind take your tin full of meringues on Halloween.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for you to love me again.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for the strength to let you go.

I remember what my cat smelled like.

I remember burning my tongue on chicken fingers in the New Hampshire fog.

I remember when I learned the word, “Fuck.”

I remember just a moment ago.

I remember sobbing hysterically on the bathroom floor of the boy’s room in tenth grade. I remember the sound of confusion in the other boy’s voice when he found me there and told me he was sorry for whatever it was I was crying about.

I remember the smell of marijuana on her clothes.

I remember when I lost my virginity. It was O.K.

I remember when I used to spit on my teachers, curse them out, and punch holes in the walls.

I remember white rooms.

I remember the shower in the hospital, the glue from my hair coagulating on my shoulders. It was a long shower.