The first thing I saw when I got to my desk for the first time since my vacation was a Leuctthurm 1917 notebook, 249 blank pages, hardcover, dotted, colored anthracite.
I was sure I took it on vacation and lost it. I was certain why I took it, where I lost it, and how. I was upset with myself about it.
And yet here it is, staring me in the face on my desk, prompting a different memory than the one I’ve been living with for two weeks, the one in which I failed to take responsibility for something. In this memory I take the notebook out of my backpack before leaving my office, deciding that it’s unlikely I will actually use it on vacation and not to risk losing it.
Memory is weird. I mean, what other things am I walking around mad at myself about that I didn’t actually do?