Last night, I lay awake for a long time, concentrating hard, scanning my memory bank in an attempt to excavate a new detail about my mom, Irene Klein. Today is her birthday. She would have been 102 years old, but she died more than 40 years ago when I was 24.
I wanted to remember something new about her, a long-forgotten conversation or moment that meant something to me. But there’s nothing there. Only the same handful of images and interactions, most of them vague and elusive, just out of reach, as if residing in the margins of my peripheral vision.
That’s to be expected, I suppose. The brain can only store and retrieve so much information, and as I get older, the retrieval process gets harder.
Still, I think of you on your birthday, Mom. And I cherish a few of the memories I still have of you:
- What Mom Told Vince, She Told Me. I can have lapses as a listener, but this time I paid close attention.
- Dear Mom. We would write letters to each other and try out some fancy words.
- Elegy for Irene Klein. This one is full of love and sadness.
- Mom and the Magic Carpet. One of those times I needed my mommy.
- Many Years Ago on Mother’s Day. This one I’ll always remember, I hope.
