Thursday, August 21, 2014


I had a drink with an old friend from High School recently. He asked me if I remembered Lily (a classmate). I had actually recently found Lily on one of these social media sites and had several updates.

Lily was one of the nicest and smartest girls we went to school with. She was kind and funny. She was cool and different. I remember she was into different kinds of music before being into different kinds of music was cool. I remember an essay she wrote that won the literary competition that blew my mind. I remember she was a volleyball player and lived and breathed it. I remembered she was one of us that went away to a good college.

And I remember she was smoking hot.

We reminisced for a bit about our friend. I gave my buddy an update about her life now: her husband, her kids, her job.

"Do you remember that weird swallowing thing she did? Do you think she had Tourette's?"

I had forgotten that.


I was home last weekend for a mini family reunion and my brother and one of his friends were talking to me. We had decided it was a good time to go get pizza for everyone. My brother and I wanted to take his friend to our childhood pizza parlor. Always the best pizza in the world in our minds. We didn't want to order ahead so we could split a pitcher of beer waiting for the order. A chance to sneak away for 30 minutes from all the kids and noise and excitement. And we would look like heroes upon our return because we had... Pizza!

"Let's take dad's mustang. We'll all fit." I exclaimed.

"Where are we going to put the wheelchair?"

I had forgotten about that.


I watched my son swim in the hotel pool. He was free, he was excited, he was stimulated. I watched the sheer exuberance as he dived over and over again to retrieve a toy from the bottom of the pool. I worried we had been out too long and his sunscreen would wear off. I gave him his countdown and he complied after five minutes. He dried himself off and came close so I could get that spot between his shoulders that he can't seem to reach.

And I gave him a hug... and he let me.

And it was nice. A perfect moment. I heard the traffic from a nearby freeway, not because it was too loud, but because the moment was suddenly so silent. I smiled.

Jack looked at me and said "I still need to take my medication".

I had forgotten about that.


If you can learn to forget, you'll learn to remember.

See beyond the disability.