Forgetting memory

Walking besides it, I held my bicycle’s saddle firmly under my palm. The top tube stretched out in front of me, the handlebars floated in the air free of my embrace, the front tire turned about itself confidently. Sadly, however, the back tire limped on with us, for its tube had gone flat. I heard the distinctive crunchel krinkle of tires on gravel, and turned to see my roommate of the time approaching on his own bicycle. He pulled up to us, took a glance at my lame tire, and dismounted to walk the rest of the way home with us through the early evening autumn sunlight. As we walked we talked about art, about bicycles, about philosophy, about the commentary on the Star Wars films dvd’s, about so on stuff. Below our feet the pavement strolled past us as we strolled on.

I am unsure now as to how we fell upon the story, but we did, and our conversation turned to me recounting to him a happening of mine. Sadly, yet again, I cannot remember the story now, though it had something to do with finding the word logos while musing over where thought sprung from. Near my story’s end we rounded a roundabout and passed under one of three overpasses that spanned the road at an altogether isolated spot. So yep, I said to punctuate the ending to my story, upon which my roommate told me that I had told him that story before, and not once before, but a few times before. Oh, sorry, I said, but he insisted that he didn’t mind for he enjoyed my stories and in particular how I told them with such feeling, as though the words I uttered were not merely words but my friends. As though the words and the stories that we wove together needed to be heard.

I sat in my classroom with my student sitting across from me. The clocked ticked close to the end of our class. I was saying something about the importance of story telling and how I wanted her to think of her own story to tell me next week. I did not want a simple account of the day she had just had. I wanted a story about a time that lay deeper within her. As an example, I said, and began to tell her my own story. Yet, when I came to the part of the story wherein my musings were serendipitously answered by an image on a T-shirt I could not remember how, nor why. I must have appeared hypocritical to my student. Even if I had not, I felt so. How could a story that had been so ingrained be forgotten?

I wonder now what have I lost over these years? How many of my stories have I completely forgotten, stories that at one time had beat through my veins carrying the same life as my red blood cells do? How have I let myself slip? I still believe that every story is worth hearing, and everyone has a story. But why haven’t I applied that to my own? Is it because I cannot craft them as I wish them to be? Perhaps…Perhaps…




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