A Rose in December

In my mind there is an empty place where a memory should be. I know that it happened because all of my family tells me that it did. In fact, in many ways it was the defining moment of my destiny; a moment to which I attribute my deepest passion. But of the actual moment, I have no actual memory. Years later there would come a moment that I recall with the greatest clarity. Yet no one – not one – of the people that I know were there – can recall the incident. Is our memory less a factual record of things than a general tome of the past? Is it true that “memory is a complicated thing, a relative of the truth, but not it’s twin?” In a decade, two, a generation and more, what will be the memory of the last two years? People tell me that they will never forget what has been done. History tells me differently…