My dad was a philosopher when he was sober. I carry an image burned into my brain of him sitting alone at the head of the dining room table in the house I grew up. It was the middle of the day, but the room was dark because the black bomb curtains were drawn. The room was filled with smoke from the pack of cigarettes he was finishing off and the cherry of his lit cigarette glowed as he inhaled.
“Like footsteps on a sandy dune,” he said, holding his arms out and slowly bringing them back in to take another drag of his cigarette. “All of this — of me — will be blown away in the wind, like footsteps on a sandy dune.” And he seemed profoundly sad and broken. And I remember thinking that should be the title of his book. Years later when it became apparent he would never write it, I thought it should be the title of my book.
When I was ten years old or so, two aunts from my mother’s side came to visit us. They were always laughing, always happy. They wore bright store-bought clothes. The visit lasted less than a week, but when it was time for them to go, I grew incredibly and inconsolably sad. I remember crying so deeply that my chest hurt. They had gone and all I was left with were dark rooms, filled with smoke and the stench of beer.
Several days into my mourning, I drew a deep breath and told myself, “this never happened.” In that moment, I had deliberately forgotten my aunts had come to visit. I had forgotten the laughter. I had forgotten the new toys. I had forgotten the hugs against freshly-laundered lightweight linen. With the exception of three more memories since that I can’t seem to push down enough, I have never cried in sadness. I have never allowed myself extreme happiness either. My present is only endurable by deliberately forgetting my past.
Old people may not have dementia; they may simply be remembering the details of their lives they have deliberately forgotten that are not consistent with the narrative they have told everyone around them. It is possible they are confusing the facts with their truths.
Decades and a lifetime later, I still have not written that book, though each chapter has played in my head and then torn out to be carried off into the wind. To actually write down the memories would be too ironic. Memories last a moment before they are swept away. A book lives forever and is far too heavy to be erased by the wind.
Perhaps my son will want to write the book. A memoir should be written while you are a young man and can still believe the lies you tell about who you are.