I Am What I Can’t Remember By Jacques Fux
1. Everything I Remember About Not Remembering
I can’t remember the day I was born. Or the day that I was conceived. I can’t remember my development, or having stayed in a warm and comfortable place for nine months. I can’t remember breastfeeding even so much as once (and look, I was breastfed until I was one). I can’t remember the taste of my mother’s milk. I can’t remember my brit-milah (but I would think it hurt a lot). Nor do I remember my first sip of wine, which was at eight days old. I can’t remember the first period of my life built on sleeping hours and hours happily nourishing my tiny body. I can’t remember physical, skin-to-skin contact with my kind, loving parents. I can’t remember my own smell, or the smell of my house, and of my great-grandmother, who took such care of me. I can’t remember opening my eyes and my mouth, which led to babbling, crying, whining. I can’t remember night or day, my breathing, or that of my loved ones. I can’t remember my chubby feet, my swollen knees, my round thighs, or my toothless mouth. I can’t remember the hugs, the kisses, the touches, the whispers, the conversations, the smiles, or the tears. I can’t remember others’ love, or my own.
I can’t remember crawling. Crawling everywhere, discovering that the world could be so much bigger. So much more full of things, smells, and dangers. I can’t remember my knees hurting after all that crawling. I don’t have the slightest recollection of the day that I sat up on my own. Of clapping. Of smiling. Of being loving and playful with those around me. I can’t remember wearing diapers. I can’t remember taking them off. I can’t remember my own smell when I hadn’t yet learned how to go to the bathroom. I can’t remember ….. To Read More Please Click here