Having reminders is a good idea. I plunk them in my calendar, and it keeps me from blowing off appointments that I actually intend to attend. They redirect me when time begins to whistle through my fingers, like when a child holds her hands out the window on a long car ride, and I lack the resolve to take on an unwelcome task. Even now there are two items on my to do list that have lobbed from one day to the next as I find ways to procrastinate. But they keep showing up to, well, remind me. 

Today is the day. I can feel it. I have broken the project into six manageable pieces, and will, without fail, barrel though the first one this morning. No matter what. I even have some chocolate in lieu of a carrot. 

Pictures remind me too. The ones on my phone, and on my screensaver, slide by in succession to bring to mind those moments that have brought meaning to my sixty years. Children bent over candles. Hands held on the beach at sunset. People I have loved and can no longer see. The babies that spent their days in my arms and their nights beside me. Sons who tower over me that once fit on my hip like a favorite purse you take everywhere. My husband when his hair was brown and we were young enough to dance.

The ones I tend to forget. 

You have them too. Perhaps your memory is more reliable than mine.