There are lots and lots of things from times I don't remember. Times in the past and
times in the future. Sometimes I don't even remember the present. For instance, I
have a little brother. Or maybe he's a nephew. I search through my mother's notebook
for clues and I don't find them but I will find them later. For now, in this memory
that I might not have, he's three years old. I am twenty, maybe thirty, maybe sixty—it
doesn't matter. We're in a bookstore. He picks up a thick hardcover with a photograph
of a brain on it, tinted orange so as to illuminate the spheres. "Do you know what
that is?" I ask him, pointing to the brain. He shakes his head no. "That's a brain,"
I tell him. "It's inside of your head. Everybody has one." I tap his temple. He looks
at me with big eyes but doesn't respond.
