What we remember
Sometimes our memory is a fine tooled instrument, other times it’s a pile of rust. Yesterday I knew I had forgotten something and it bugged me to know end. It felt like I was going through my day missing something very important.
I the dawn of this new morning, I discovered what I had forgotten. It was nothing at all, but my subconscious had been plagued with the remembrance of an old friend’s birthday. This friend is someone that I haven’t spoken to in twenty years or longer.
My wife suspects that, I may be going through the early stages of a form of male menopause. I cannot remember things I need to, and remember the junk that should be long purged from the files.