I Remember (Except When I Don’t), by Annie Wexler

There are things I don’t remember anymore. Like I don’t remember what I did three days ago, or two days ago. On a good day I remember what I did yesterday, but I don’t have a good day every day.

I started a journal a few months ago where I wrote down everything I did on a particular day so I could look back on a date and be reminded of what happened. But after a few entries I forgot to write in the journal, so most of the pages are blank. I would be in a state of panic over this except for the fact that most of my friends nod in knowing empathy when I bring it up. “Oh God, me too,” is what they say.

But there are many things I do remember. Like most people’s names. When I see someone I haven’t seen in a while the wheels start turning and out pops, “Hi Jane,” or “Hi Joe.” My husband Tony remembers clearly what he did yesterday, but when we run into someone we haven’t seen in a while I can see that blank look in his eyes. So I announce, very loudly, “Bill! Great to see you.” Or if I think Tony still doesn’t get it, I’ll say “Look Tony, it’s Bill.”  I’m sure our friends know exactly what I’m doing. If they are young they just say “Hi Tony.” But if they are old (our age!) they catch on right away and say, “Don’t worry, I’m the same way with names.”

I remember quite well things I’ve learned over time, like how to speak French. And even some Hebrew, which I spoke fluently in 1968 after living in Israel for two years, and after lying in an open trench, terrified, during the six day war, wondering if I’d come out alive. I remember how to cook chicken and matzo ball soup from my grandmother’s recipe, but not how to make her sweet plum tart. Although I can’t fault myself for that because I never tried it.

I remember how to read music and how to play all the chords, including all the diminished, and the majors, and the minor sevenths and ninths. I just started my piano lessons again last week and sat down to play “You Go to My Head” and only messed up on the G-flat major 7th chord  with a sharp ninth.

I remember all the bird songs I’ve ever learned and I can walk in the woods on an early May morning and hear the yellow warbler go, “sweet sweet I’m so sweet.” Or a chestnut-sided warbler sing, “pleased pleased pleased to meetcha.”  Or if I’m lucky, a barred owl in the distance hooting, “who cooks for you who cooks for you all.”

I remember how to play crazy eights and gin rummy with my grandchildren. How to iron a shirt collar first, as my mother taught me. How to blot out a red wine stain by pouring seltzer on it.
How to polish my brown leather shoes, but come to think of it, since I never do that anymore, I can’t be sure that I actually do remember.

I remember how to design a garden — how to know in early April what flowers will bloom, and what color each will be, just from seeing a few shoots of green.

I still know how to find my way around town, how to make and keep friends, how to be happy. So until I find my purse in the freezer I’ll consider myself lucky and be grateful