I have six jars of curry, five deodorants, three bottles of Dove liquid soap, and two cans of unsweetened cocoa. I do not need any of these in bulk. It’s just that there are things I can’t seem to remember.
I have to write stuff down if I don’t want to forget.
I can vaguely conjure the memory of the deep sound of my father’s voice, the way his hands were tanned and bony and smelled always faintly of cigarettes. I have to count backward to remember what year I graduated college, traveled to England, chipped my tooth while eating broccoli, or had my first kiss. I couldn’t tell you what I got for Christmas when I was ten, how I learned to tie a shoe, what my GPA was in high school or what I scored on the SATs, when I started liking avocados, or the last names of many of the guys I’ve slept with.
I can vividly recall though the smell of the perfume my mom wore when I was a kid, sitting on little stools in the kitchen pantry with my sister pretending we were “scientists” and mixing spices and sauces with names I couldn’t yet read to create secret concoctions, the way our backyard looked in summer and how it felt to dive into our pool on a hot day, the way the birch trees out front our house rustled in the gentle wind as I lay on my bed reading. I remember my first kiss and how nervous I was and how squishy it felt (he had very big lips), the first time I got pulled over by a cop while driving, and walking across the stage when I graduated college.
I worry I am forgetting the little moments that make up my life. I want to get back to writing, or rather, to collecting my stories for prosperity so that later when I say I can’t remember, I can be reminded.