There are numerous strategies threaded through my waking hours to help me remember things. Four apps on my phone take turns trilling and flashing when it is time to ferry kids or take out the brownies or go to work or call the dentist. I can even direct John's phone to remind him to buy blueberries for pie when he goes to Trader Joe's.

 

I read an article about the brain, pointing to its remarkable ability to remember. And even when it can't remember it knows that there is a name or an errand that it is trying to bring up. It had a fancy name for that scenario, knowing that you do know but right now you don't know. I guess it's like when Steve Martin was given a sealed envelope with the name of the winner of the Oscar. He held the answer in his hand but right now he could not see it.

 

 

There is only limited shelf space in my attention. I can shove in a story or three about John's generosity to budge the annoyance to the back, like the time he bought me a roll top desk on ebay and rented a U-Haul to go fetch it in New Jersey during the limited window of time I was at a luncheon. I walked in minutes after the old desk had been pushed aside and the towering oak desk was grunted into place. All eyes were on me, poised to witness my reaction to the magnificent piece of furniture and its forty four drawers and cubbies. I did not disappoint.

 

Or I pull up the time our three daughters bought tickets to see Wicked in New York, and realized they were nervous about traveling by train and subway. He drove them to the theater, and... waited in the car. When the play was over he drove them safely home.

 

In the presence of such memories the complaints get elbowed out, and finally shrug their shoulders in defeat. 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Kristin Kinsey

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