On Memory

Memories are tricky things to write. The mind is not linear. It takes details, alters them and simplifies. It mottles life’s chroma. In the pieces I wrote about getting stuck in the bathroom when I was eight, weird details came first to mind – the shape and smell of the soap my grandma had out that day, where I sat on the floor when I was scared. I had to piece the fragments together into a coherent narrative.

When I’m writing about the past, my past, the details come in spurts. This week, I tried to write in a way that reflected the actual process of remembering, of putting my membra, my limbs, back together. Consider the following: “I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack.” In my mind, the sound the key should have made stuck out. But I couldn’t recall it all at once; it took several tries. In writing this experience, I tried to re-member the memory.

With more recent memories, the details are clearer. But I lose the sort of critical distance that allows for deep reflection. I’m still not sure whether I was actually helping in my work as a legal intern. The Haitian lady I was on the phone with certainly did not think so.

I’d like to think of remembering as unfurling a sail. Undo a few ropes, and then the details rush and billow out. More often, though, it feels more like panning for gold: a lot of shaking things up with very few nuggets to show for it.