I like to think of myself as having a good memory. Often the names of my friend's children arrive on my tongue right when I summon them, or the bill on my desk niggles just enough to garner attention. Other times, though, the cloud of amnesia obliterates past actions. Even precious ones.

 

The other day a friend asked about a story I wrote in which my mother prayed for her young romance in a diary entry. I doubted having ever composed such a message but she was quite sure. After a brief search there it was, scarcely twenty four months old. Digital text requires no drying time, but had it been ink it would still be damp. Almost. I cannot recall how my mother's musings fell into my lap, which is another red flag of forgetfulness.

 

I was moved to reread the jubilance in her voice, a season before she carried an arm full of white glads and swished down the aisle on my father's strong arm. Her thoughts were a flight of anticipation, and unbridled affection. It felt like a stark contrast to the way my husband and I parted this week. I dropped him at the station on the way to the airport, headed for our son's birthday bash. We were distracted with worry about having missed the train and forgot to hug. 

 

It is not as if an iron clad memory is always in our best interests. One of Joseph's sons is named Manasseh, which means forgetting. It was an act of God's mercy that Joseph could retire the harsh recollections of slavery and betrayal. They only served as the stark backdrop to his freedom in Egypt. 

 

One of the last conversations I had with my father was in Tucson, because living under the same roof with Mom was too exhausting. 

 

"How was it, Dad? Things were... rough."

 

His smile was like a gladiola waking to the sun. 

 

"I only remember the good times."