A Meditation on Memory and Morocco

She asked her brother, Do you remember being in Morocco and taking this photo of you and me? It’s not a traditional selfie, this photo of the oldest and the youngest of the siblings, this photo in a plain white frame, their heads close together, both of them smiling, the resemblance more striking than usual in the flat north African sun. This photo was taken with her 35mm camera, her favorite for travel, her second favorite when she’s working. He had held the camera. She had clicked the shutter. We had been in Morocco on a family trip.

On the printed itinerary, it was a synagogue trip, but the gravitational weight of our family made it our trip. Six of us out of perhaps nineteen travelers. How different our memories must be from those who traveled solo in our group.

She asked, Do you remember?

So, what is memory when autoimmune encephalitis has ravaged and atrophied part of your brain? Or, perhaps, the better question is where is memory.

Do you remember?

Shake of head no.

At this, I am not surprised. He had already ‘said’ as much to me, a puzzled shake of head no. What happened next says as much about family memory as it does about her love for him.

She said, That’s ok. I remember for you.

And that’s what we say now, and what we do now, when the memory is inaccessible to him via any direct route. We are unwilling to say the memory is gone; we don’t know; we may never know; even as he heals, even as his brain rebuilds, we may never know. It’s part of what we do now, to continue to remember for him, to continue to remind him.

We say, That’s ok. We remember for you.