“Alice, remember the time my three nephews stayed at our house and I took them up skiing?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Sure you do. I cooked hot dogs on the grill and we all laughed when I went out on the patio with my winter jacket and gloves.”
“That does sound funny.”
There are things I wish I could forget. The time I went into the boy’s bathroom during a basketball tournament and hid in a stall until halftime was over, hoping the audience hadn’t noticed (they did). The time I enraged a customer by saying something sarcastic and begged the supervisor who was half my age to tell me what to do, acting like I was ten years old again. The time I lost my temper with my five-year-old boy, pleading with him to forgive me, giving him ice cream and wishing he’d forget the whole incident (he did, I didn’t).
Then there are the things I wish I could recall.
Who is that girl in the new Avengers movie and how did she blow up that truck (my son hushing me in the theatre, hissing “She was in the last Captain America movie”), profound and meaningful poetry, historical facts (The Peloponnesian War—who were they and what were they so mad about), who was the murderer in this decades old Law & Order episode so I don’t have to watch the entire show again to find out?
It is only getting worse with age.
I feel like my memory card is full and once a month the system auto-deletes 10% to make room for more information.
Unfortunately, I have no control over what is gone, leaving me with holes where facts used to be and past misdeeds firmly entrenched in my mind.