A Little Bit of an Exercise I Like

* Write one page of memories, always beginning with the words "I remember." Write a second page of sentences that begin the same way, but are lies. Then, intersperse them.

I remember the pain of gravel on bare feet, and how it eventually lessened the longer I stood.

I remember indescribable pain in my ears after running two miles through a Connecticut winter, and how the thaw hurt almost more.

I remember when it was cool to be religious.

I remember emotional landmines. You touch them, and you die.

I remember my mother's address book, falling apart at the spine and never replaced.

I remember irrational fury at someone suggesting I should like something or someone.

I remember the security of being with adults, and the exhale of being with friends.

I remember the pressure of always appearing to be learning or appreciating something.

I remember running away, wrapping all of my essentials in a white towel and trying to attach the bundle to a stick, like I had seen done in movies. It might have been a grand success, except for the note I'd left, telling my parents where I had gone.

I remember it was a thrill having secrets for about a day or so, and then feeling as if I would die if I didn't tell someone.

I remember the joy of rediscovering something, usually an old letter or picture. The rush of memory, sweet and sudden, is rare and precious.