Brain Like a Junk Drawer
Where my jumbled memories are stored
My memories are fragile as porcelain. I long to hold on to every second, recall and relive each happy moment before they slip and shatter, like my coffee mug this morning. Andrew and I were enjoying the view from our back porch, when I went to toss a peanut to a visiting squirrel. My right hand lobbed the treat, and my left hand joined in the motion, throwing instead my Galveston souvenir coffee mug to a confused and startled squirrel. The mug tumbled from my grip and broke into pieces on the concrete.
We visited Galveston after we married and before Covid. I can’t recall the year unless I look it up. Never good at remembering dates, I rely more and more on my phone, calendars, sticky notes. The desk in my office holds a rainbow of colored squares. I keep lists — groceries to buy, books to read, movies to watch, places to visit. This method works until I can’t decide whether “Luce” is a book, movie, or shorthand for lettuce.
