Cut Scenes from a Cafe In Quebec

I have an excellent memory. In the aftermath of my brain surgery, my biggest fear was that my ability to recount past events was damaged in some way. Under the haze of anesthesia, I walked around the park near our old home with Rand, struggling to piece together the last few days.

I’d struggled through the fog and was able to tell him what my days had consisted of – TV watching and eating food, mostly, with visits from friends interspersed here and there, and this, for him, was enough.

“See?” he said. “You’re fine.”

But fine was not enough for me. My memory does not operate in haze or in vagueness. It is precise, with hard, defined edges – a sort of miraculous sprawling thing that I inherited from my father, as my brother did, and, it seems, my nephew as well. We do not sort of remember things.

Keep reading this article on Everywhereist.

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