Things I Used to Know, by Susan Lesser

I used to know all the elements on the periodic chart that hung from the top blackboard rail in Mrs. Carlisle’s chemistry classroom.The chart has grown since then, the rows filled in with new fancy-named elements, one colored box after another with the atomic number included. Or was that the valence? Or is the atomic number the same thing as the valence? I used to know.

I used to know the names of everyone in my 2nd grade class, but last week I found a class photo of us all, a black and white photo. There was one boy in a plaid shirt who had a front tooth missing and one girl in a dress with puff sleeves and her hair in fat braids, that I couldn’t identify. I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I’m hoping their names will come to me, maybe when I wake in the middle of the night sometime.

My 2nd Grade teacher was Miss Lipscomb. The longer than usual skirts she wore were dark, but not black, and her shoes were clunky. She was not afraid to go into the boys' bathroom if she heard laughing or if Joe Hoyt Akers was fooling around and flushing whatever flushes in the boys' bathroom every ten seconds. Miss Lipscomb told us it was impossible anyone would ever go to the moon. The moon was scalding hot where it caught the rays of the sun and freezing cold on the shadow side and no person could last more than three and a half minutes on either side. I used to know that, but not anymore.

I used to know absolutely that if I sat quietly for long enough and didn’t wiggle my toes or breathe too loud, a rabbit would hop up onto my lap, or maybe a grasshopper would jump onto my knee. I was certain we would have a conversation about some common interest, maybe grass or rain or coyotes. I also knew all animals spoke English.

I used to know how to jump rope and the rhymes we chanted when we jumped, how to tie a fancy bow for a birthday gift, and how to dance the Merengue. I’d still like another go with the Merengue.

I used to know how to ride a bicycle. They say you never forget. That is probably true, but now even when I am attempting to peddle down a flat road, I am afraid I will fall. I used to know how not to be afraid of falling.

I used to know Latin conjugations and declensions — hic, haec, hoc, and huius, huius. huius, and so on. But even on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I’d rather clean a closet than go through all that again. I have chosen not to know them ever again.

I used to know how to take notice of the little things like cheerful bees collecting pollen from the sunset orange lily, the gentle sound of the purring tabby cat nestled on the chair across the room, and the golden flicker that springs up in the candlewick I light for my cousin who died this week. Wait a minute! I still know all that, and I want to know that, and I will know it as much as I can.