You ever meet someone who tells you what you and he or she had done so many years earlier when you hung out that time, but you don’t remember? This happened to me recently at a neighborhood reunion.

Try as I might, I couldn’t remember what the hell they were talking about. Worse yet, I couldn’t place them in my memory back or through the retrieval process. Who is this person, I asked myself while smiling and laughing hard at the retelling of a story they seem to have gotten so much out of.

I couldn’t remember.

Don’t forget to remember!

Why couldn’t I remember, I asked myself. Is this early Alzheimer’s sinking its teeth into my psyche? Am I losing it? Was I ever that high that I can’t remember what I did?

I did take some really good acid. Five times. Smoked a lot of grass during the time of their story. But, for Christ-sake, I never remembered blocking out anything before.

Or did I?

And I guess I’d be the last one to know that.

That is, if I could remember to remember it.

Duh!

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(My weekly writing group “prompted”this article suggesting we tell of what we couldn’t remember)