So something stunning happened this week. I shared a memory with my husband that he is a part of. He IS the memory really. Something he said. I told him where we were standing in which house and the month and year and, while I didn’t tell him this part, I also remember what I was wearing.
And he does not remember it.
At all.
He doesn’t have even something hovering at the end of a partially vague memory.
What the hell?
It actually wasn’t that big of deal, but it did make me wonder:
How many memories do I NOT have that are important to others? How many things have I forgotten or just not even retained from the outset and the other person can remember it down to the outfits?
(My husband didn’t need to apologize which is what this sounds like so I want to clear that up. It was something totally great that hit me in an old sensitive spot. A spot I have been working on.)
But I think this is related to me getting nicer (cough cough) and realizing how often we are innocent. Or, if not me, someone else. It is our personal experience, culture, idiosyncrasies that make us hold on to some memories more than others. So if the other person(s) doesn’t hang on to it- that is also just reflecting their individual makeup. And it doesn’t mean one is right or wrong. It just is how it is and both can even be okay. Isn’t this kind of marvelous? Both can coexist.
I am perfectly happy with that memory now that I figured out why it hit me down to the hemline of the black and white striped slacks I was wearing. And my husband is perfectly happy not remembering it at all.
If you care to share, I’d love to hear about your memory and how it works (or doesn’t).
Name an event from our childhood and Anne and I will remember it differently. Of course, there are also many things one of us remembers and the other one doesn’t. Remember that song from Gigi, “Ah, yes, I remember it well”?
I love that song. Do you and Anne agree to disagree or do you realize the other one is right?
Darla and I were swapping memories being with our family at the beach in the summer — pleasure for me, nightmare for her. The difference had to do with age and height. To her, every wave was at best a nasty slap in the face. To me it was the best roller coaster ever — big warm Atlantic waves.