A few days ago my brother in law, husband of my sister who succumbed to cancer almost 20 years ago, sent me a drawing I must have given her once.  He placed it in a large rustic wooden frame.  It’s less than 2 x 2 inches, and depicts one of the creatures of netherworld whose only purpose seems to be that it possesses the will to move in a certain direction.

I recognize the drawing as mine but have no recollection of having given it to her.  Such is the state of my memory: it no longer contains traces of the most important, “memorable,” events.

The sight of the drawing conjures a Platonic world of all drawings I might have made, thousands of them, and given to family and friends over the past 20 years.  They are there, somewhere, waiting to be found and resurrected.

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