A List of Everything I've Forgotten
Because she asked
I was at a writing workshop last weekend, listening to a professor from Tufts talk above my head about things like maps and atlases, cognitive dissonance, seeing the earth from space as a tiny blue dot and Ursula K. Le Guin.
Occasionally, she would pepper in these little prompts. “Make a map of your body.” “Use words to capture wordlessness.” The one that stuck with me the most was, “make a list of everything you’ve forgotten.”
Honestly, that could go on for days. I’m sure I’m not the only one who can lay claim to a bit of forgetfulness. I’ll even stand up for something then forget what I stood up for. It happens. The brain plays little jokes on the body. It keeps the relationship spicy.
But when it came time to write in this workshop, for how much the first two lend themselves to poetry (and I’m nothing if not a sucker for a poetic line of prose), the prompt about remembering what you’ve forgotten stayed with me. A bit of irony there, but that’s for another day. Part truth part fiction, just to fit the spirit of the space, here is what twenty minutes and a lot of pressure to look good at a writing workshop gets you. Or me. But mostly you.
Because you’re reading this.
Make a list of everything you’ve forgotten, she says. Everything? Seems a tall order. While I've forgotten some things, others I can’t let go. But that’s not what she asked. No. Just everything you’ve forgotten. A truncated list, in the interest of time. My first period. The name of my first goldfish. The first time I got on a plane. Where we parked the car. The smell of Joslin's at the Westminster Mall. Though if I smelled it again I would have a Pavlovian response and think of my grandma. How many sisters my grandmother had. Not that one. The other one. The one who gave us toilet paper for Christmas one year and wrapped everything in the same paper. Not the same actual paper but the same design, probably having bought rolls of it in bulk by calling the number on the screen before Costco was a thing. My first sip of whiskey. The burn of my throat. Though I do remember Dad’s chesty laugh as I dry heaved and he followed with, “that ought to be enough of a deterrent.” My high school locker combination. Why I wanted so badly to be a cheerleader. I'm not the cheerleader type. But I do remember the sinking feeling--heart to stomach--of sitting in my fifth period German class where two other girls received white carnations from seniors dressed in their cheer outfits signifying they made the squad and I didn't. What it feels like to share a first kiss. The last time Michael came to me, wanting to be held. The last Pixar movie the boys and I watched together on summer break eating PB&J from Zoo Pals as Jack walked on the back of the couch begging for any morsel like a crust of bread or a sour cream and onion chip a poor little pauper ready to suck up any dropped crumb including a chicken bone that fell from Peter’s TV tray. Who I was in college. A girl on the precipice. Big dreams and bigger eyes, biting off everything even when she couldn’t chew. The world back then was big-small “If she can do it then so can I” attitude towards everything. Money. Marriage. Fame. Anything is possible when you’re 18. Then suddenly, you’re not. Anymore. Eighteen. Watching opportunity windows close with bills and stretch marks. Gray hair. Wrinkles. The cloak of invisibility that appears in the middle of your life like a superpower. I didn't ask for it. I’ve forgotten so many parts of that girl and her obsessions. Still I can’t let go of the whole. But that’s not what she asked. So I’ll keep that to myself. Remind me, if you can. Sorry to bother you. Where'd we park the car?
❤️ What a wonderful experience to read