What’s in a memory anyway?
I got this bullet in my head, you see?
I stood up when I should have sat down, and that damned commie sniper hit a bull’s eye on my helmet.
I heard the ringing for weeks.
The docs said the lead ricocheted around inside the helmet explaining why I got a dozen wounds from one bullet.
It saved me life.
Had the damned thing gone straight in, I’d be dead or worse, a vegetable.
Even so, I don’t always think straight.
Little things confuse me.
Like my own name.
And whether I’m married or not
Or if my parents are living or dead
Or where they happen to reside.
I keep telling people to contact me at a house I haven’t lived in since I was five.
That’s why they keep me here.
So I don’t wander off somewhere and get lost.
It is hard to get back someplace when you can’t remember ever being there.
This is hard on my wife and kids.
They have to introduce themselves each time they come for a visit.
I remember their names long enough to say good bye when they got.
I guess they feel pretty bad not having me remember them.
The docs says I might never get better, handing me a lot of mumbo jumbo about long term and short term memory, and about how weird my brain is after so much trauma.
But I remember the war.
I never knew the names of the men I killed.
But I remember their faces.
I know I’ll live with them the rest of my life.
I only wish I could forget.