The Persistence of . . . Uh . . . I
Forget
By Lavinia Plonka
S
alvador Dali’s unforgettable image of watches dripping off branches has been a favorite of mine since I was a child. Time can melt, but never disappear, like the memory of an event. Except of course, it’s not true. Memory itself melts, distorts and recreates itself with a logic that defies science.
He’ll say to his friend, “Hold on a second Jeff. My wife is jumping up and down with something that can’t wait.”
He uncovers the phone. “Uh, yeah, Jeff, we can’t do it tomorrow. It seems we have theater tickets . . . ”
“You can’t meet Jeff tomorrow, we have tickets for the theater.” “What theater?”
My husband Ron has no memory at all when it comes to social plans. I rack my brain trying to understand what trauma he had in his childhood that would make him incapable of remembering that we have tickets for the theater, that we’ve had the tickets for six weeks, that he loves this play and was the one who said he wanted to go. I’ll hear him on the phone, planning to get together with someone for the night we have the tickets. I try to get his attention. He hates when I try to talk to him while he’s on the phone. Never mind that he tries to talk to me while I’m on the phone, that’s another rant.
“No! They’re doing Hamlet downtown, we have tickets for tomorrow!”
I used to pride myself on my impeccable memory. My family called me “ST”, for Steel Trap. Why look something up when you could just call Lavinia for obscure song lyrics or a forgotten recipe? Until recently, it seemed to me that women in general are better able to hold details like whose turn it is to do the dishes, or when was the last time you took a toilet bowl brush in your hand, with greater precision than the male mind. Ron’s memory seemed sharpest when reminiscing about his youthful exploits. We can go to a party where he will have a delightful conversation with someone we’ve met several times, and then later that evening, when recalling the conversation, he can’t remember the person’s name. Yet the other day, an envelope appeared in our mailbox with an unfamiliar name. Ron came home and I called out to
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thesofiamagazine.com | March 2020
“Um, Hamlet? Remember?” “Yeah, I know the play.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” “Tell you!? You picked up the tickets!” “I did? I did! But that was weeks ago.” “Right. But we haven’t gone to the show yet, didn’t you notice?” “Of course I know we haven’t.” There is an uncertain pause. “Damn, I’ve seen so many productions of Hamlet. I wouldn’t know if I went or not. You have to write these dates on the calendar.” I mutely point to the calendar, which is right in front of him, where I have written, HAMLET.
