We sat with my tape recorder running. Memory is a kind of family. And you introduced me to your nephew, my father as a child. Your head tilted fondly and your glinting eyes gazing off to the side, ani- mated, as though about to join a giddy family, table in the corner of the room. Your attention fixed there, you chuckled and described him, circling the crowded table to nibble food off people's plates-or am I confusing that with how you remember me.
Memory is a kind of fusion.
You helped me draw the family tree from which I grew, create remembrances where I had none. You helped people the sets, props, and wardrobe on a distant, sparse, smashed stage. Told me who entered, exited, crossed, returned or never was seen again. The kinds of details that make my eyes flood and my sinuses rush in anguish. Make me realize fiercely what we have lost.