Memory Keeper

I have always been the memory keeper in my family. My Ginga was the storyteller, and she told me all the stories so that I could remember them. I remember the stories of her childhood, and my dad’s, both woven into the warp and weft of my own. I am the one who remembers what day of the week, month, year that an event happened, and what everybody was wearing, and what was said. My had had these memories too, but times are changing. Now I am beginning to remember them for him, rather than with him.

I remember pages of books, and will often dream page after page after page of a book in which I am immersed, eventually turning to new pages that my mind fills in for the parts as yet unread. I remember what I have read, the covers of the books, where I was and how old I was when I bought them, when I read them, where they are on the shelf, and where they were before I rearranged them.

I remember what books my sister has read, and if she enjoyed them or not.

I remember plots of TV shows, including ones that I have never actually watched, but are part of the cultural zeitgeist, or are just shows that a family member loves. I feel like I ought to know about the shows my family watches, so I look them up. And then I remember them. Because that is what I do.

I remember students. I remember their names and their stories. I know who wrote which essays and stories 2 or 5 or 15 or 20 years ago. I remember class discussions, hallway conversations, silly jokes. I know who spilled Coke on my classroom carpet and made the big stain literally seconds after I reminded her why she was not supposed to be drinking Coke in my room. I remember which projects belonged to whom, even after all my student samples are long gone in a different school. I remember quotes from books that I teach, and, when clever students want to test me by opening a book at random and reading as section to me, I can tell them the page number.

I remember the family events. I remember the names of my coworker’s partners and children. I remember the birthdays of my son’s friends, and my husband’s relatives, and my best friend from childhood who I have not spoken to since we were 15 and she mailed me a letter that said she had “outgrown me and moved beyond our friendship and never wanted to see or hear from me again.” I remember that she wrote that. I remember the secret grotto in my high school where I hid the next day and cried, sheltered and protected by the filtered green shade of the overgrown morning glories that hid the entrance.

I also remember for my son. His baby years. His first tiny friends. Which teachers he had which years, in which schools. His soccer teams and parkour dreams. The books he loved and the books he hated. His interests, which YouTubers he follows this week, what things he wants for his birthday, five months away. What he plans for his future, and what he plans for next week’s science project. Where his homework is, and whether he has done it. Where he left his coat, his shoe, his hat, his other shoe, the book that he was reading three weeks ago, the really important journal that he left under a piece of tissue paper in the art corner of the basement because he got distracted and built a factory out of toothpicks when he was carrying it with him to get the laundry from the dryer. I also remember where he ended up putting the laundry.

I remember which medicines he takes twice a day, and which once in the morning or once at night. I remember the patterns of his anxiety and the way it ebbs and flows around school events, and what “always happens at this time of year” and what looks more like illness. I remember that he needs to wear his invisalign braces, and that he forgets his aligner case, and that he will not put on his rubber bands unless I tell him. And tell him. And, after telling him again, make him show me. I remember when I need to do the orthodontia scans, and when he needs eczema injections, and when to refill medication.

I remember when his last seizure was. I remember the details as vividly as the first.

It all swirls about in my mind. I remember it all, good and bad, wanted and unwanted, useful and utterly ridiculous. I know my first phone number and the combination to the bike lock that my stepfather charged me with remembering when I was eight years old. I know my cats’ birthdays, and the sublime flavor of the triple chocolate cake that was always the favorite choice for my birthday’s and my dad’s too. I can only navigate by landmarks, and see an endless overlay of what used to be where stacked up in my mind’s eye so that I can keep track of where I am, or maybe where I was, once upon a time.

It can be exhausting, being the memory keeper.

Who will remember for me?