2017 November 5
I remember when I said I remember. It was an hour ago, thinking I should write this about something I remember. I remember I said I remember only a few seconds ago, in my mind, when I wrote it. I remember. Yes.
I remember looking out the window. There were trees and bushes and dirt and clouds in the sky, and then sunlight shining over the hills. We were moving. It was a moving window. It was a car. I remember.
I remember sometimes I look for water. I looked for water. My brother was in the back seat of the car with me, looking for water. He was one year old, maybe almost two, or maybe only eighteen months.
I remember when my brother was eighteen months old. I remember telling people he was eighteen months old. I was nine. We had lived in our new house for more than a year.
I remember we moved, on January 31, 1959, when he was four months and fifteen days old. I remember I was not there on the day we moved. For some reason which I do not completely understand, I went with family friends to Disneyland on that day. I remember that with a strange feeling in my gut. Almost guilt, almost pleasure, almost mixed up and half-forgotten. I remember it, but I don’t know if it is true anymore. I remember how I used to remember this fact with strange feelings. Why did they send me to Disneyland? Or did they send me? Were the Black family going there anyway?
I don’t remember if my baby brother went with us that day, but I think not.
I would ask my mother, but she does not remember things like that anymore. I don’t know if she ever did know. I don’t remember.
I suppose my parents hired movers, but I don’t remember that very clearly.
I remember my father moved his boat into the front yard. He was building a small sailboat. I remember the day we launched it. He launched it. We used to have a home movie of that, somewhere. Maybe it is in a box in the closet. Or maybe not.