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.