The Memory Remains

I wrote this. You should read it. You should read the other ones, too. But read mine. :-)

It is a curious melange of fact and fiction. The essential events really happened-the itching, the rush to the store, the crash into the wall, the rush back home, the anticlimactic fading of the rash. It was snowy, but whether it was actually snowing, I don't know. Did I play a tape? Did I listen to NPR on the ride instead? I don't have any way of knowing.

This just makes me think about how little I remember, how fragile memories are as a whole. I don't remember anything, it seems like-and, at times, I discover that the things I remember didn't happen, or didn't happen when I thought.

I wonder how many conversations and events in memoirs suffer from this problem.

Do we ever know anything at all?