You Must Remember This

How do you make a memory? Seriously. I want the formula. My memories and what I remember are separate universes. I can memorize pages of dialogue within an afternoon but on Monday morning I can’t remember a joke I heard Saturday night. I often get stumped when asked how my weekend was, my memory wiped clean… what did I do?

Last weekend I bore witness to an historic event. I was lucky enough to attend the Legacy Awards celebrating Canadian Black Excellence. The inaugural event was televised on CBC and recognized the achievements and contributions of Olympian Andre deGrasse, sportscaster Kayla Grey and cultural promoter Fabienne Colas. But there were hundreds of examples of Black excellence in the room— representatives from the worlds of music, fashion, journalism, literature, film, television, sports, politics and diplomacy. It was a quintessential night to remember. Was it enough to set my intention to be present for as many moments as possible? How do you make a memory?

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I have a memory of being in a redwood forest, a haze of fog and rain shrouding their majesty. Until my ex tells the story with his incredulous punchline, I forget that I never got out of the car. I’ll save that story for another time least I tumble into a too deep rabbit hole. Speaking off, I have a crystal clear memory of white knuckle driving through the night dodging kamikaze bunnies crossing the two lane black top of the Baja peninsula. I remember the relief and revelation of Cabo San Lucas. I have a memory of yellow light streaming through a hotel window and a blue blanket draped over the chair. I don’t remember a specific sunset but I know there were a few (photos help fill in the gaps).
 

Memory is a tricky thing. We forget things we want to remember and remember what we want to forget.  Heightened circumstances sear trauma into my memory. Likewise an adrenaline overload fuses details into the general haze of a good time. I worry about my memory. I’ve already lost so much to childhood trauma and old age looms on the horizon ready to obliterate what’s left. So I’m committed not only to the preservation but the creation of memories. Because my memories are my story. 

I know my brain records things every minute— things that may or may not register in the moment but then pop vividly to the front of mind. Why, of all the details do I remember the blue blanket? I suspect it anchors in place this moment I’d never imagined, a foreign idyll literally another ocean away from everything I’d known. There are probably more poignant moments but this is my story.

If I make better memories will I write a better story? Imagine the command “I must remember this” setting things in motion— the brain dog ears that page of the story, maybe I underline it or make a note in the margin of my mind—and voilà, a memory.