Where do memories go? Not the ones we remember. Not the ones we reach for as we lie awake in the middle of the night, thirsty for a sip of old times. Not the warm, fuzzy ones or the giggly ones or the ones hurled as angry recriminations in the heat of the moment. No. Not these.
Where are the memories that time has hidden? The ones from age three to five? Days, weeks and months have vanished. I close my eyes and try to remember something from the time. Anything. A colour. A snatch of a song. A sweet I hankered after. But nothing comes to me.
I feel betrayed. By my own mind. On what basis has it rejected these memories? My memories. Who did it ask? When did it turf them out? How did it extract them? Perhaps it extended a long, slender finger in to the secret hiding places in the ridges and furrows of its own body where the memories hid. Trembling. Did it hook a yellowing, curved nail in to the shuddering, gossamer like filaments and then pull them out? All this as my head lay on a pillow. Asleep. Unaware. Unarmed. Unprepared.
I am worried now. Ten years from now will I remember today? My delight in the dogs that frisked in the park this evening. The feel of this red silk shirt against my skin. The smell of gardenias that come wafting through the window?