I went home today and I brought back a book.
The Man Without Qualities (volume 1).
It’s one of those big European books my mom liked to read.
Recently I read that if you don’t keep remembering a thing—
Remembering like exercise, like practice—
You will forget it.
Its qualities will become vague.
(My mom’s high school yearbook superlative:
That can’t possibly happen to my memories of my mother, I think.
Mother: that distancing word. I worry: I am not exercising them enough.
I am wary of photos, as if they will replace memories.
Especially photos of her in her later sicker days
(Why would you put a frame on that?)
I am wary of memories of memories.
My secret resource is her books
So many she read that I have yet to read
Some she wrote in, one she wrote
Skimming, seeing post-its, dog-ears,
Marginalia. Chapter Four:
"If there is a sense of reality, there must also be a sense of possibility"