But I didn’t understand, then, how important memory is, for how do we know who we are without memory? How does anyone else know who we are, but for their memories of us?
It has been fifteen years, but I can still remember every moment of that year. It is cased in a vitrine, and the things I see through the wavy plexiglass are indistinct and as odd as that car going the wrong way on the parking garage ramp.
1964, a month prior to the anniversary of JFK’s assassination, a different home movie shot. Infant toss. Up-down. Plummeting. I’m ten months of age—picking up speed.
In an excerpt from her forthcoming memoir Harley and Me: Embracing Risk on the Road to a More Authentic Life, the author shares what she learned studying sea life on the island Mo’orea.
I remember my husband, when I asked once why things couldn’t be easy, the way they used to be, saying, bitterly and through clenched teeth, “It was never easy.”