The question that haunts my work is “why memory at all?” Why do I mine the place of memory? What we remember, what we forget: these things tell us about who we are. When something like identity is so diasporic, there is a need, or at least an inclination, to remake the experience in hindsight; the need to produce a memory that feels closer to true than what someone else would tell.
Everyone in my town tells this story. I was in grade 5 or 6. We watched outside, and paced in the kitchen. The water filled the street and a man in jeans and a plaid shirt lost his hat to the wind, and into the running water. He was on his way home I suppose. I do not know why we did not drive to somewhere higher. Maybe my mom did not have her car. I don’t remember. It quickly became too late.