Ah, the things I can’t remember:
What I had for dinner yesterday.
The name of the little doohickeys that cover the valves on my tires. I had to pantomime yesterday while having my car serviced.
At least once a day, where I last put my phone.
How to knit. I once knew how, but now I don’t. Apparently knitting is nothing like riding a bicycle.
How to dance the Macarena.
The last time I had real cheese. This one made me cry. If only I’d known it was the last time, I’d have savored every single bite.
Similarly, I can scarcely remember what a Dr. Pepper tastes like. All I’m certain of is that it’s nothing like cheese.
How to diagram a sentence. I once was skilled at this task.
Names. Faces. It’s awkward when I have to ask my husband, Studly Doright, to wear a name tag.
How to play a saxophone. I was never a great musician, but I miss the camaraderie of band. I wonder if I could join an air band…
But I do remember most of the dialogue from Star Wars, A New Hope, and all the words to The Heart of Rock and Roll. I know John Cowsill’s birthday and Studly Doright’s social security number, as well as my own.
I remember the day I realized I couldn’t marry Elvis Presley. Not because of the immense age difference (I was five; he was in his twenties), but because my name would then be Leslie Presley.
I remember how it felt to hold my babies for the very first time. That new baby smell is still fresh in my mind. And I remember all five of my grandkids’ birthdays. Sometimes I don’t remember how old they are, but at least I get the date right.
Going to high school football games in late November when it was so cold I couldn’t feel my cheeks, but loving being squashed in between the grownups in my life, pretending my hot chocolate was coffee just like they were drinking.
I remember saying “I do” and meaning it, even though I didn’t really understand the commitment I was making at the time. Does anyone?
I remember my mom’s smile and my dad’s laugh, and honestly, what else matters?