Memory slips through one’s fingers, an aggrieved net unable to hold sea or time. Everything floats by and through as intangible, ephemeral.

   How to achieve fluency and accuracy of memory, of memory loss? I do not know.

   It could begin like this: There were four of us boys. We were all part of the same family, but also we weren’t.

   This speaks volumes about the subjective experience of family members curating their own realities, individually, within a shared network. In other words: we were all there together, but also we were there separately. Dad hitting Mom with the belt registered a different impact and separate internalized reality for each one of the brothers. In this respect, memory can never be singular. It always splinters, and in splintering it proliferates. Memory is a hutch for rabbit orgies, destined for multiples, never singularity.

   Each of us curates our own reality.