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giving me memories

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

Today I wearily told The Boy, "No, I don't remember the incident you're talking about."

He looked disappointed. It was about the fifth time I'd told him that of late. Sometimes he was asking me about some recorded TV show we'd downloaded, sometimes it was an event at which I hadn't been present, and sometimes it was something that had happened that morning.

"why not? i remember it."

"Well," I told him, "I have two small children, a full time job, I'm studying, and my sleep is constantly interrupted. My memory is suffering."

"oh," he told me. After a pause, he added, "i'll give you your memory back." Then he explained the event he had in mind, reminding me about (whatever it was). And in so doing, allowed me to recall.

"Good work, Ken!" I told him.