I don’t remember the name of the paint color I picked for most the house. It’s a creamy white and I love the way it contrasts against the dark wood beams. I don’t remember what kind of wood it is. I think it’s teak, stained dark, but even if someone told me I probably would forget.
I don’t remember the passwords I’ve selected for most of my many online accounts. I’m forever needing to give my password hint and reading those wavy number-letter combinations they ask you for to verify it’s you. Or at least that’s what I imagine those psychedelic number-letters are doing. Besides making you feel woozy for an instant.
I don’t remember good portions of my childhood, if I ever got to sleep with my older sister, the one closest to me in age. I loved everything about her. Her long straight hair, black not brown. Her skinny arms and lazy-looking eyes. I loved how she always wore miniskirts or bell bottoms and that she was neat. She kept her Barbies in a Barbie case, with tiny hangers, which I lost soon after she passed them all down to me. I remember cutting Skipper’s hair so short and then lamenting it couldn’t grow back. I don’t remember if the reason I cut it was because I thought it would grow back.
I don’t remember the name of my third grade teacher. I know it started with a Z. I know Miss Wood was first grade. Miss Wood with white-blond hair worn ala Marilyn Monroe, who was so beautiful I couldn’t believe she was a teacher. I remember Mrs. Salisbury, second grade, the first and only Black teacher I had in elementary and even junior high. They call New Mexico a tricultural state: Hispanic, American Indian, White. I wonder what it feels like being left out of the picture.
I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade. Those were spent in a new school. I remember wishing I had Mrs. Salisbury again.