So here we are.
I was having dinner with two college friends last night, and we were marveling at the things and people we chose to remember, as opposed to the things and people we simply forgot, by choice or not.
For instance, I remember that I’d learned to play 500 in college (a stressful experience if I recall, as evidenced by my mood ring turning jet black in the course of my learning until I finally got a grasp on the game) and that my friends and I spent many hours in our dorm suite playing 3-, 4-, 5-, and 6-handed variations, listening to INXS and David Bowie, or underground recordings that Laura’s then-fiancé Jeff (who worked for Rykodisc at the time) would pass along to her. I remember the concrete walls, the bolted-down furniture, the Handi-Snacks, and the faces of everyone behind the cards (that included 11s, 12s and 13s).
But I don’t remember how to play. At all.
And on Friday, I found myself recalling pockets of another memory, a memory I had not thought about in many years, but that I still saw vividly in my mind: