Your favorite memory
The odd thing is, when you start to think about what your favorite memory is, you discover that your most, well, memorable memories are the truly awful ones. The time someone broke up with you. The day you found out your childhood dog died. The time any single one of your pets died. The day you sat behind the wheel of your car, terrified if you made one wrong move your back would betray you and you’d be paralyzed. (Thanks, alarmist doctor. Fucker.)
Seems unfair, doesn’t it, that the good memories seem inconsequential by comparison? They just don’t stand out as much. But, if you think about it, maybe that’s because the good memories are more numerous than the bad ones. If that’s the trade-off, I’ll take it.
Given that, I’ll tell you, if not my favorite memory, then at least one of my favorite memories is reading to an audience (that wasn’t my writing group—not to diss them, of course) for the first time. It may have been a small group, but when they applauded for me, it was an awfully good feeling.