Memory Book

Dear Reader,

The thing about being a writer, or at least having been one, is that the line between what you’ve written and what you’ve lived will eventually begin to blur.

What I mean is that your stories and those characters you’ve spent so much time with will sooner or later become indistinguishable from your memories, and you’ll waste more time than you care to admit sorting their faces into little piles. Sometimes, it will happen in the midst of a conversation, right when the story gets interesting. Most often, it will happen at night.

For example, you may think back and find yourself forgetting if the bum who asked you for money, which you kept because you had a date that night and thought you may need it to tip the waitress, was a man or the lines of some forgotten story. And though you won’t remember dogearing his page in a notebook, you’ll think of him at the end of every fall.

In that memory, you’ll be reminded of the way red and blue lights, cherries and berries your brother-in-law called them, reflected on the snow. And how your wife scrunched her face and waved her hand as her brother sidetracked into a story about a school bus rollover that he responded to when he was a sheriff’s deputy. The accident made national news, but you didn’t listen much beyond that because you couldn’t stop looking at the cherries and berries and how they set black shadows across the ground—how the scene made you think of an old movie that someone tried to turn 3-D. And how, as you passed by, you thought that if you had a paper pair of glasses, the old, frozen bum would reanimate and look a little less like a mannequin. Then, you’ll check your pockets for loose change and catch yourself reaching for your wife’s name instead.

There is no pattern to the memories either. Some days, you’ll forget if the smell of puppy breath and the feel of little kid hands, sticky with hot chocolate, is something you can claim as your own experience. You will find moments of stability in the memory: your irritation at the constant questions or the touch of your wife’s fingertips. They were gentle on your arm as you repeated the same thing about paying attention or sitting still. But you won’t remember what the questions were or why you thought they were such a burden.

You will recall the boy’s red hair, but the features of his face will escape you. So, you’ll question if you even knew him or his dog, or if they were just storybook characters from a time when your own son was little. Then you’ll get the urge to read back through your work and jog your memory. But you won't remember the title or where you’ve stored the books.

There will also be times when you may forget if the corner store, the one with the lady named Hannah, was a place you’d frequented when you were younger. But you’ll think it may have been fabricated, nothing more than another scene from another story. Probably the one about the serial killer—maybe.

But when you think of it, you’ll be reminded of the smell of fishing bait and how the beer cooler was always cleaner than the rest of the store. How the same group of old men would eat ice cream at a square table in the corner, and how you thought working there would be a nice alternative to the butcher shop. You’ll still get sick at the smell of blood, but you won’t regret the time spent in that summer job.

I write these things because there will come a time when I, too, will fade into that obscure cast of characters in your mind. You’ll look in the mirror, and you’ll stare back at a man who is surely not yourself. He’ll be wrinkled and tired, and you’ll wonder how old he was when he started losing his hair. But you’ll see your father’s jawline and your mother’s eyes; you’ll notice the gold ring on his finger, and you’ll ask where his wife is.

Then you’ll remember she is dead.

And that will spur motion. You’ll recall that you live in a nursing home, and the way your son’s wife touched his arm when you kept asking him questions. You’ll assume he made the choice out of annoyance, but he didn’t. It was your call.

You’ll also remember how the corner store closed and what the cover of your book looked like, the one about the serial killer, at least. And you’ll think back to Hannah. You’ll recall that her character was based on your fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Kwerzeski. But you didn’t like her name for a protagonist, and a schoolteacher wouldn’t fit well into the plot, so a clerk named Hannah would have to do.

Then you’ll remember your mother and how she cried when she held your son for the first time. And how quickly her mind left when he was only three. Twenty years later, your younger sister would also cry while she held your boy. You’ll recall that appointment because the doctor said Alzheimer’s could be hereditary. You knew that, but the way he said it was too abrupt. Had your wife been there, she would have scolded the man for his shortness. That’s the stuff that made her a good mother. You’ll still struggle to remember her name. It was Helen.

The point is, the fire of pain does well at evaporating the fog. But a writer lives so many lives that he may struggle to keep straight his imaginings. This is as reasonable as it is acceptable, because people like Hannah and the homeless man were as much a version of you as they were your stories, and in remembering them, you are, in ways, remembering yourself. You are nothing more than a collection of influences from those you have loved. So, by recalling who you are and what you created, you are, in turn, carrying them out of the fog. And that makes it all worthwhile.