Here’s to the list of things I almost remember: about last night, just after being barked awake from the last dying sparkles of a great dream, the wonder of being 5 years old, about that missing thing that mocked me while the grocer asked did I find everything, and “What are you thinking about so hard honey?” at the barbershop. Lost treasures.
All those lost streams are somewhere trailing and dangling off the end of some rusty neuron’s dendrite. Probably lost to the booze, fevers and other sad, hypoxic moments. What can you do? I reply, “Whatup”.
At fifty-one I have to wear my colloquialisms ironically, or risk the wrath of betters, like my good dog Sadie, and all four of our children. My wife sometimes offers me the pun-induced stink eye, but obviously her judgement’s in doubt by definition. And I love definitions, and dictionaries. They get to wear the state parade clothing of bibliophile museums and official bonafides. I can’t remember the other reasons, but I know they involved strong feelings and superfluous adjective attachments.
Wait, I’m hiding behind the silliness again. Here’s to remembering to remember.
Here’s to all the details that escape us, from and about those who leave. I miss my friend Pete, I miss my old Captain Johnson, I miss my Grandpa Roy. I miss every single forgotten joke I ever let drop-slip offside the edges of my conscious mind. What right do I have to forget any glad moment?