Weird, the stuff your brain remembers. Forgotten for ages, and then the wind blows, a fragment of dust loosens, a brain cell bumps into another cell and a memory pops in.
Last night I was watching Whose Line Is It Anyway? Just for five minutes before flipping it off and going to bed. But I remembered an entire limmerick they sang in a different episode. I don't even know the last time I watched that show -- years. But somewhere, my brain retained it.
And the other day, I was thinking about the silverware at my house. No, really.
It's not my house anymore. I left that house in a whirlwind flurry-of-fury. And I sometimes realize I can't go back. Not that I want to. I don't. But it's a light tug beneath your skin to realize - that old box of school shit? I can't throw it away. That bowl with the cartoon mouse? It's there. The spoons I've eaten soup and ice cream off of for ten years are there.
(I forget that my dog is not. I always imagine that he is, though.)
Oh, whatever. Tragedy. You can buy new spoons. Silverware is unimportant. It took me four months to even remember its existence. Just one of those small things.
Like when you move to a new place, you remember the big things. The bathroom is different, the route you take to work, the neighborhood. But you don't remember that tree you always eyed on your drive home. You forget the house with the drawing in the window. You forget the rhythmic, predictable cycle of thoughts you always had on your familiar route.
Until a cell bumps agaisnt another cell. And then you remember something small.