Although playing with aromas is playing with fire. I forget things – I’ve learned that a short pencil is better than a long memory – and only come to cherished memories with the help of pictures or scents. “As I pen these words, I deal with the effects of what happened in the early fall of 1994. Here’s what James writes about regaining his memory: On the other hand, maybe he’s a victim of circumstance and his obsession is a way not to relive the horror of a lost identity. Suddenly, we’re in danger of being memory’s prisoner. – You failed 7th grade English class and believed you could never write. – You got a speeding ticket on Main Street, so every time you pass the location you check your speed and tap the brakes. – Your father cursed and threw things when he cranked on a wrench, so you have an aversion to auto mechanics. Isn’t that what Shannie was saying? If it was, in lies their danger. There’s no denying their power, heck, memories define our identity. Maybe the answer is directly related to how much time one spends in the memory universe and how much energy is expended recalling them. I hear the romantics shouting: “How can you not be guilty?” Heck, I may even be guilty of such an offense. Double or nothing that you may have even obsessed over one or two. I have a feeling James isn’t unique and am willing to bet that everyone who reads this post is haunted by memories – good or bad, funny or sad. I claim lack of expertise in the science of memory, but I have written a novel about romancing a memory, so that qualifies me to pontificate about memory’s potential sappy nature. Was Shannie inferring that memories are the sentinels of our souls? So much that he recites the poem before her headstone. Shannie (pronounced Shane-ie) wrote it in James’ birthday card, and like so many things about Shannie, its significance haunts the narrator. So begins a poem that appears in Cemetery Street.
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