The Gift of Memory

Nine years ago, folding laundry in the basement of our six-story apartment building in Queens, New York, I never thought I would one day cherish that memory. As I was drifting off to sleep last night, the memory came unbidden and unexpectedly, flooding my mind with the fine details. The floor's peculiar shade of blue, the smell of concrete, paint, and fabric softener, the tumbling sounds of the big dryers, the warmth of the room, the long table where I folded the clothes ... and little Mina running around keeping me company. A memory of Mina that I had completely forgotten I had, and as soon as I realized it was there, I was wide awake, searching, trying to remember more. What did she do there? How did she amuse herself? Could I hear her laughter or remember any specific event in the laundry room? All I could remember was that I always had to watch her to be sure she didn't go behind the line of dryers and get tangled in cords or get stuck between the dryers and the wall. I also remember finding a dead cockroach in there once, and having nothing to pick it up with, I had to watch her closely to be sure she didn't pick it up either. I always checked the room for roaches after that. (Who am I kidding? I was paranoid about roaches in that building. I probably checked every public room for roaches every time I entered.) I think she found a penny there once, and she liked to help me put quarters in and push the buttons on the dryers. I only just remembered that part now.

I so badly want to remember more, but I'm grateful for that glimpse, that extra little memory that has led me to browse through my catalogued Queens memories in search of more forgotten memories. I suspect I won't find them as long as I'm seeking them, but it's nice to know that I can be surprised with them on the edge of sleep from time to time. I'll add this one to my cherished collection and eagerly await the next.