I could really use a pin or a necklace that says, “I remember nothing.” It is my motto and I repeat it at least once a day, giving credit to Nora Ephron and her book, I REMEMBER NOTHING
I just reread it for the third time. And because I remember nothing it was almost like reading it for the first time. Lucky me. I laughed and smiled and shook my head and wished I was as good a writer.
The first time I read I REMEMBER NOTHING it had just been published; that was way back in 2009, when I was a kid in my late 50s. I identified with what she wrote about never being able to remember anyone’s name, always greeting people with “Nice to see you,” never “Nice to meet you.” But I drew an imaginary line at the chapter called, “The O Word,” which begins, “I‘m old.” She was 69 at the time, which no longer seems old to me. Nor was it to her, since the next lines were, “I’m not really old, of course. Really old is eighty.”
Nora Ephron died a few weeks ago at the tender age 71, the day before my 61st birthday.
The last two chapters of her last book are titled, “What I Won’t Miss” (email, bras, Clarence Thomas) and “What I Will Miss” (My kids, Nick, Spring, Fall, Waffles, the Concept of Waffles.) I didn’t cry the first time I read those lists. But this time I couldn’t help myself.
Apparently, Nora choreographed her own memorial service, leaving instructions in a folder marked “Exit.” That is called presence of mind.