The Good Fortune of Forgetting
On memory, time, and what we gain in remembering.
How does the paradox of memory exist within you? Does what you remember or what you have forgotten affect your present more?
I often find myself apologizing for things I can’t remember… Birthdays, unanswered messages, sentimental anecdotes shared in intimate moments—the kind you would think left an impression—and they did at the time. But I forget things I even hold only within myself… Not because I didn’t care to, but because my mind had other plans for those details.
My apologies for forgetting the name of your hometown… or the moonlit conversation we shared last month … The look of disappointment on your face—my memory’s absence taken as disregard—was palpable. If it’s any consolation, I also forgot who I was at twenty two… and twelve… it’s nothing personal. But trust you are on my heart every time I see peonies—their softness reminds me of your smile and fragrance fills the room like your laughter. I’ll send you random pictures from the train… a virtual bouquet for our friendship.
We all have things we wish we could mentally disregard. Incidents, relationships, brazen words—easier brushed off as if they aren’t incremental to our being. Though graciously, with time often comes the good fortune of forgetting, even if more is lost than what we intended. Because self-preservation in pursuit of a less painful presence can burden your bones with the ache of remembrance. What we dismiss settles in the undercurrent of our mental atmosphere, clouding consciousness with faded memories. And what I didn’t know then—but that causes so much difficulty now—is that repression lacks precision. All the mess gets swept up and tossed out together, without sparing the good moments I would have liked to remember.
So what do you hold onto when so much has been lost—things you never knew you would miss or else you would have captured them differently—not just in the mind but a place more permanent. I find myself dredging through the archive of my memory, searching for relics of who I was before I forgot, wondering who I would be if my internal references were more clear. Not just days, but years left unmarked and lost in translation.
I imagine my brain struggling to grasp the weight of words carried over water, bathing me in the personal forgiveness required to remember. Water and words, both fluid and temperamental in nature, take the shape of whoever contains them as they measure the distance between the past and the present. There are words we will never forget, yet we can’t find the right ones to help us move forward—to reframe what cannot be changed except for in the mind of how we choose to remember.
Still, some memories lurk like ghosts that prefer haunting over reminiscing. They thrive off the impermanence of the mind, where clarity is relative and certainty is intangible. When they come back, and this has only developed with age, I find myself standing on their periphery. I keep myself at a distance so as to not become fully enmeshed with what I can’t control. Memory can make an instance spread like a mile and last like an hour but in the wrath of unwanted recollection there are details we can savor. Not as afraid as I once was, just curious—I like to look from the edge to see what else surrounds it. There, I see more than what I could before. From the outside, I feel strong enough to reclaim what I can’t evade but must continue to endure: time.
Memory is both passive and active, as they way we choose to remember is what shapes our relationship to time’s passing. As both the wound and the salve for pain felt but not seen, time melds forgotten bliss overshadowed by grief. What awaits is an unlikely story that is more forgiving. A bit of posterity might be the grace your forgetful mind needs to see what is worthy of bringing forward. I’m at peace with what I get to take with me and what was only for the moment. Above all else, I strive to be present. Memory is formed from where we are.