Remembering a Memory

I forget.

What makes a memory a ‘memory?’ Why does it seem that only 5% of what’s happened is going to be remembered?

I’m sitting alongside a journal I had written in LAST summer, merely a year ago. The handwriting’s different… but then again, it’s the same. But the writing… I didn’t write that! Who wrote that? I swear it wasn’t me. Why don’t I remember?

A friend of mine jumped in front of a train. Memory. To a distinct point when I was three is the earliest I can recall. I was sitting atop a vent, on the ground, while my father sat on the coffee table reading a newspaper. But my father doesn’t read newspapers! The air gave off a cool feeling to me. A fabricated memory? But why?

My mother walked in the room to hand me my bottle. Another memory. She was wearing all white. I remember thinking she looked just like what I would have imagined an angel to look like. Real? Or not real?

Yesterday, … sometimes I can’t remember yesterday.