I forget things . . . often . . . . Little things here and there, like the last item on a grocery list or my coffee as I walk out the door to go to work. I don’t do it quite as often as my son, but I do forget. Luckily for my son, he makes up for this social drawback with an intellect and a social panache that defies reason. Sure, when my wife or I are lecturing him, this intellect and social panache fade like so much sunshine at night. When others do it though, well, let’s just say I’ve seen him smile and talk his way out of whatever mistake he has made, even when it’s forgetting something. It probably doesn’t hurt that he is usually the smartest person in the room when he does this.
Maybe I have that ability too (not because I’m that smart). In fact, I’m pretty sure I do (again, not because I’m that smart). Much like him though, this ability vanishes when I am speaking with a family member . . . my wife in particular. With her, there was a time when I could, then there was a time when I tried, now we have reached a point in our relationship when I don’t even try. I simply say, “I forgot” and offer an apology.
As sincere as it is, this apology, which is on something of a repeat button, must get . . . irritating. No. Strike that. I know it gets irritating. I get it from my son and it irritates me . . . .
It is, it seems, our lot in life though. Something in our blood perhaps . . . .
Such is life. Full of lots. I wonder, sometime, if cosmically, we are all just shards of the first sinner. We’ve been broken into billions of pieces and here we are, each of us, small parts of a whole, suffering our respective lots in some sort of twisted infinite repentance. Mine, quite obviously, is that I tend to forget things. This, admittedly, is a pretty light lot to carry. Then again, maybe it’s not something that pseudo-religious. Maybe it’s just a misspent youth that has caused this forgetfulness. Sometimes, if I think too much on such things, I start to wonder if I am getting early onset Alzheimer’s. Just typing that sends shivers down my spine.
I’m sure that’s not what’s wrong with me. Hell, I’m sure there isn’t anything wrong with me as far as memory goes. I’m just forgetful. I’m just one sinning shard lost with the billions of others. All of us are making up for some universal sin that took place eons ago. Or I’m just a man who made many mistakes growing up and forgetfulness happens to be a side-effect of said mistakes. Or maybe I’m one piece of star-dust given life so I could sit here at this moment and type these words and sin means nothing and morality is what we make it. Maybe I don’t know what I am. Maybe I don’t know what any of us are because I forgot before I was alive, just like everyone else.
Maybe that’s fine.
I did, after all, forget what this blog post was about at some point in the typing . . . .