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  • On the flight that wasn't a flight but three planes with three airlines that took me from Washington to Frankfurt to Delhi to Kathmandu, I finished two books and started a third.

    The last of the three combined two of my favorite things: books and walking. It was a gift; the two probably ought never be combined. Walking while reading proved fairly dangerous and reading of walking, dangerously boring. (The book is improving. Slightly. It has to improve; I still need to get home.)

    The first was a gift from my boyfriend from 4th grade. No longer in grade school and no longer mine, he has grown into one of my favorite men even as he regularly shares apocalyptic (pre- and post-) stories with me. I have no idea what he wants to say with them, but they are disturbingly entertaining.

    Between the two, the boredom and disturbance, I read a book by Nora Ephron: I Remember Nothing. It made me laugh a little, cry a little more and think of my own life.

    Ephron forgot things. Some things. Everything. Huge swathes of her life. She talked of the Internet and the way we could find, we could "remember," details in an instant without remembering anything at all. Movie titles. Drink names. Mojitos.

    With the Internet, we could "remember" things we never actually knew such as the recipe for said mojitos but we could not remember where we vacationed last year, whom we met, what we did. We could bring back the names of our boyfriends from fourth grade. At least, Ephron could not search for her life on the Internet, but as I read the book, I realized I could in large part. I could find the bits that I consciously chose to scribe.

    The past seven and a half years of my life and a solid chunk of earlier stories appeared online with a story a day (sometimes more), and at times, I hated it.

    Anyone could read these years of my life, anyone at all, and know so much about me. Some people did. Almost eight years could be compressed into marathon sessions of ups and downs and incredibly inane bits of navel gazing. Fear, hope, laughter, love in bite-sized chunks.

    Some of the stories felt worth reading to me, and some not so much. Life was like that. Some good, some not. Between them, they contained the human experience. My human experience. My life.

    Not everything is written, not in its entirety but there is enough to help me remember. To help both my mentor and my grandma keep up with me before they moved somewhere beyond words. To help allay the fear that someday I will remember nothing.

    I am not the person I was eight years ago. I am not the person I was eight days ago, not completely. She is still somewhere within me, still learning, still growing and while I do not regret the things she has done, I cannot say I would do them again. She's been a big hot mess at times.

    The writing makes me live, makes me get out and find something of which to write and the writing helps me remember. I will remember. I will.
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