Those long lost memories exist in smells and textures and scents and imagery flashing.
It's a strange thing to think about. maybe because these things seem to exist beyod thought, in that little pocket where the subconscious and conscious thought almost meet.
Seriously, if you were to ask me about something...more recent, more tenable, I'd tell you every detail. To an uncomfortable degree. That time in college when we all drank champagne from ben and jerry single size serving cups infront of the Campinile? Want to know what you were wearing? What we were giggling so endlessly about? I might be able to tell you.
But there are these other pieces. Almost lost in the warm soup of who I am, and they grab me, unexpectedly. Between waking and sleep. With a smell or just the right combination of sound and texture.
And I remember people in these abstract terms as well. That is what gets me. My first crush. My best friend. The little old lady who lived next door and wasn't my grandma but was sort of everyone's grandma. I remember a hazy flash of a doily, or the sweep of a hand up the side of my neck. An impression of a room filled with children and where we all sat but not one face, not one color.
The main thing I wonder, sometimes, is how do I get there? How do I pull these senses into thought. Because a very small part of me suspects this is who I truly am. Behind the action, behind the intention, this is where I started to be me. It's who I am when I forget to be the me I am so attached to now, lost in the motion of breathing and moving and aching for something akin to completion.