This is a story of memory, trauma, erasure, and [re] discovery. It’s about what happens when the storyteller abandons the scene, leaves things unsaid, unrevealed. What happens to the untold story over time? Does it disintegrate or disappear? What makes a memory? Is it possible to reliably reconstruct the things that were forgotten? How basic is that question? Here’s a thought: the present is a pin stuck through us holding us in place against the inexorable pull of the past and the vast uncertainty of the future. When I tell you the story about the sandwich that I ate with Jo in the Smile Diner on the day that she wore those iridescent green peacock feather earrings and got ketchup on her shirt am I remembering it right? Is that actually two separate memories overlapping? Maybe three or more? Is it an architecture that my mind creates for the idea of Jo to reside within? Will anything ever again compare to the flavor of that sandwich? | image @yigsta via @rareequation