Memory is a funny thing.
There are times, here on this blog and elsewhere, when I nudge details further into corners, or further out of them, with the hope of making pretty a story that never was. These nudged details become my truth.
And what is reality but a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the nonsensical? We tell stories to impart meaning on the meaningless, each of us the hero of our own plotless tale; a meandering, overlong snoozefest with no theme or structure and an end that comes only when the book is closed.
As for these little moments, I don't know. I'd like to believe that somewhere in a dusty corner of my mind, an old film camera is whirring away, missing nothing with its greedy, grasping gaze.
But maybe that's not the point.
My father drove me to school every day in sixth grade. He drove me in his beat-up blue Pontiac and we'd listen to oldies or the easy listening station. Sometimes we would talk, but usually not.
One morning, I sat in the passenger seat, my arm resting on the window sill, just as I did every morning before that and every morning after. I wasn't particularly happy or particularly sad. It wasn't my birthday or a presidential inauguration or the last day of school. In fact, there was nothing special about the day at all.
But on this unspecial day, sitting in the seat I sat in every day before, I thought to myself, "I'm going to remember this one forever."