My sister never forgot a *thing* in the house we spent five years in. I’ve either blocked it out or was too young to remember much anyway.

I use my memory in my work–much of it is autobiographical in some way or another. Now I’ll have to steal other people’s memories and use them in my stories!

Melissa: Your comment came through. For some reason WordPress isn’t showing them up right away, not even mine and I work through the Dashboard.

My webmaster fixed something and I think he messed up something else.

Even as I was writing the post, I remembered the detail about the rocking horse in the Mouse House nursery attic. I think I even still have it–it’s a Hallmark ornament, stored in the garage with our old collection of Hallmark dated Christmas ornaments. So writing *does* work.

I’m still crazy over those mice. Can’t let the new cat see them!

Oh, my, I’ve never giving up my color. I’m so pale I look like somebody helped out of a coffin as it is. And don’t you think having our old hair color is a way of hanging on to the past? It’s enough of a shock to look in the mirror and see this 62-year-old face without adding white hair!

We do all re-interpret memories and from what I’ve read, that’s okay. Your reinventions, even filling in the blanks with fiction, is a way to cope and perfectly acceptable.

It seems I only remember the bad things, and not the good ones. I rely on my sister to fill in the gaps. And if I repeat the same old stories to you, like somebody 98 years old, you’re kind enough to listen to them. I do tend to my past, like a winter garden waiting for spring.