Selectiveness of Human Memories

Isn’t it funny sometimes, the things that our brain decides to retain for us, without our conscious choosing?

Our first convention, I forget the exact year but it was at least two decades ago… We were short one seat in the only car we had available to get us there and were too young to rent an extra, but goddamn it if we were about to leave any of us behind — so one person got to lie across everyone’s lap in the backseat for the four or five hour drive. Of course, he was the tallest of us all. 

I remember when we arrived. “Dude. You need to get off my lap.”

“… I’m trying. I can’t feel my legs.”

So of course we did the only thing we could. We picked him up by his belt and tossed him — with love, mind you — onto the parking lot asphalt. 

(Don’t worry. He was fine.)

No one could afford hotels back then, so we made a day trip of it. The gasoline was enough of a cost. We ran into an old friend there that had moved away. We saw some amazing costumes. 

That is all I can remember from that day. Well, except that we got Arby’s, but I can’t remember if that was near the convention, on the way there, or on the way back. I can’t remember what it tasted like. I can’t remember if I particularly liked it or not — although it probably wasn’t any better than any other fast food I’ve ever had. I remember that my friend loved it, and was so happy we found one, given that we don’t have one in our hometown. Yes, I remember how much she liked Arby’s. I wonder if she still does. Maybe I’ll ask her later. 

My oldest memory was when I would have been about two. It’s gotten so blurry over the years; so many details lost.  My sister was an infant. We were walking outside, together, as a family. Well, I’m not sure if my dad was there or not. He may have still been at work. I can’t remember my mother’s face. I don’t remember looking at her. Somehow I was able to look into the carriage my sister was in. Someone must have lifted me up, or been carrying me, for me to see in. It was a dark navy or ultramarine carriage, a very simple one. I can’t remember my sister’s face. I remember being curious about what was in the carriage. I think I understood that it was a baby, but I’m not sure — that may be hindsight tricking me. 

The sun was setting, in front of us. But, wait, I’m not sure that’s right. I feel like the sun was setting — there was that darkening gold in the air, in the treetops, or maybe peering over roofs of other houses on the street. I have the feeling that the sun was setting somewhere ahead of us, but that would put the cardinal directions in places that feel wrong to me. 

Oh well. My sense of direction and memory are both quite bad. I may be mistaken about which way our house faced. In the memory, it feels like it was behind me, to my right, and we were walking away from it. 

I remember a bit about the house too, come to think of it. I was turning four the summer that we moved out of it. I vaguely remember the living room layout, the half-stairs to the back hallway, the rough layout of the kitchen and dining room. I remember my parents keeping the Halloween candy on top of the fridge, out of our reach, so they could ration it to us a little bit at a time and we wouldn’t wolf down the whole bucket. I remember hanging upside down off the couch like it was a jungle gym. 

Why these memories, and no others? They were not particularly important or impactful. At least, I don’t think they were. 

Our minds are so strange.

April 6, 2025