Over the years, I have found I curse my memory often.
Thoughts tumble out my ears with each turn of my head.
For important moments I focus hard,
willing my brain to imprint each word, each inflection.
It succeeds with intermittent success.
The mundane activities, the everyday life,
washes by like the eternal current of a river,
peaceful or raging but traceless.
Knowing these moments will grow mossy with age
no matter how I dam the flow or direct the stream
fills me with frustration, or sadness.
My friend, who's robotic memory churns out dates and minutae,
says it's a blessing to forget.
He keeps it all, the good, the bad, the painful,
the best forgotten.
Maybe I'd agree with him if the forgetting were volitional.
As it stands, on the whole I'd say he comes out ahead.
At least he'd remember cracking roasted chestnuts,
champagne in the glow of the ball drop,
jello and reunions to the tune of country music
Even if it comes along with every evil thing said,
every moment of self-doubt and regret.
2 January 2012