Yesterday I was hit square on the jaw with a memory so vivid I could have woken up bruised and not felt surprised. It was the kind of memory that lasts seconds in the life of a teenager, but pops up unexpectedly twenty years later and all you want to do is run head-on into it to feel and smell and taste that one clear thing.
My immediate response to the recollection was, “I could write this.” Then I preceded to compose sentences and list publications and punch the gas along a country highway between here and there.
Today I sat down (a gift to Linda; here I find in practice I am absolutely wrong about my Ups and Downs) to write out the memory, find the story and create something beautiful out of hormones and punk rock, and I realized that most of all I wanted to give the memory back to the person who helped create it.
Maybe the story is a story, but maybe too, it’s five lousy sentences on a Facebook page waving to an old friend.