What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget

The Christmas season is a time for reflection. It's that time of the year when I ask myself the deep questions, like why did I move to California? And why did I bring my 500-odd records with me when, four months later, I still haven't set up my stereo?


I am a keeper of things. Too many things. It's a characteristic I come by honestly: my father carried the newspaper notice of my birth in his wallet for 30 years, and when my mother died and I had to clean out her house, I was torn about what to do with my childhood art projects, which she had framed and hung on the wall.

I threw them away. Eventually.

Why can't I be like Kay, who moved kit and caboodle to Bermuda at age 30, carrying everything she needed in a few suitcases?

I think I need to keep things to remember. When I found that note from Josh last summer I instantly recognized his handwriting, and the memories poured into my brain. I remember where we were sitting when he took me to see Prism at Hamilton Place. I remember walking to the end of the pier at Lakeside Park. I remember the disapproving look on his mother's face when she saw my neon pink nailpolish.

And I don't want to forget any of it. Ich vill nicht vergessen.

Two years ago, I wrote this story about my grandfather, because I hate Christmas, and I can never throw away that Peggy March record.