[One]
When? When will I remember? Not how. But when.
At first, I will remember every day. Maybe several times a day. Tomorrow, I will say it happened yesterday. I will remember yesterday. And then the day after tomorrow and after and after. For many days, I will remember. And then there will come a time when I won’t recall immediately how long it has been. I will count in my mind and on my fingers and only then will I know. Eventually, I will forget. I will forget for a very long time. It will lie dormant. And then one day the bus will be late, I’ll catch someone’s eye, I’ll hear someone catch their breath. And I won’t know whether it really happened—that moment—or whether I had been waiting for an excuse to make it happen. But then it won’t matter. I will remember this.
I want to know how long I have to wait until I remember again.
[Other]
I spend a lot of time thinking about the ocean. It began with gathering.
I gather you might want to shut the door. I gather this day is a marker.
I gather days. I gather light, lost in frames and thresholds. I gather the ocean.
I gather the ocean opens and closes like lips or fingers speaking.
It’s true, most stories like this begin in the forest. But ours might be a boat overturned. Our luggage bobbing and sinking.
I gather splintered wood. I gather splashing arms and feet. I gather I am not sure whether to struggle.
Or how hard to struggle. To slow and gather strength…the strength to stop swimming
[ Other]
I’ve made a machine. It makes memories.
No. No that’s not quite right.
It makes remembering possible. No.
It remembers for me? Perhaps.
Yet, sometimes I remember things the machine doesn’t make.
{A list of some things that remember what’s there, even when we can’t see it:
A globe
An astrolabe
A lighthouse
A recipe
A dress}
The precise memory span of a Betta fish is exactly 16.4 seconds.
This is a lie.
Elephants never forget.