| General Non-Fiction posted October 5, 2021 |
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Startling recollection of brief interaction
Selective Memory
by Elizabeth Emerald
On Sunday, I took part in a three-mile walk to raise funds for the food pantry at which I volunteer.
As the walk was about to commence, I was approached by a woman I didn't recognize.
Melissa introduced herself; she said she'd bought a handmade pin from me, some years back.
I used to craft "initial" pins from wooden squares, painted and embellished with letter stickers, which I sold to raise money for the food pantry.
I was astounded that Melissa recognized me without my erstwhile maraschino bob.
I jogged my memory. Melissa had not attended any of the sparsely attended fund-raisers I'd hosted.
By default, our interaction had to have taken place in the food pantry's parking lot, which, on one afternoon several years ago, had been transformed into a black-topped ersatz yard sale.
Since I'd sold only one pin during the four hours of the faux flea market, I inferred it had been Melissa who'd purchased it.
To confirm my recollection, I asked Melissa whether the transaction had occurred in the pantry parking lot.
Melissa replied, apologetically, that she didn't recall the occasion; her memory was impaired consequential to having been hit by a snowplow last December.
On Sunday, I took part in a three-mile walk to raise funds for the food pantry at which I volunteer.
As the walk was about to commence, I was approached by a woman I didn't recognize.
Melissa introduced herself; she said she'd bought a handmade pin from me, some years back.
I used to craft "initial" pins from wooden squares, painted and embellished with letter stickers, which I sold to raise money for the food pantry.
I was astounded that Melissa recognized me without my erstwhile maraschino bob.
I jogged my memory. Melissa had not attended any of the sparsely attended fund-raisers I'd hosted.
By default, our interaction had to have taken place in the food pantry's parking lot, which, on one afternoon several years ago, had been transformed into a black-topped ersatz yard sale.
Since I'd sold only one pin during the four hours of the faux flea market, I inferred it had been Melissa who'd purchased it.
To confirm my recollection, I asked Melissa whether the transaction had occurred in the pantry parking lot.
Melissa replied, apologetically, that she didn't recall the occasion; her memory was impaired consequential to having been hit by a snowplow last December.
As the walk was about to commence, I was approached by a woman I didn't recognize.
Melissa introduced herself; she said she'd bought a handmade pin from me, some years back.
I used to craft "initial" pins from wooden squares, painted and embellished with letter stickers, which I sold to raise money for the food pantry.
I was astounded that Melissa recognized me without my erstwhile maraschino bob.
I jogged my memory. Melissa had not attended any of the sparsely attended fund-raisers I'd hosted.
By default, our interaction had to have taken place in the food pantry's parking lot, which, on one afternoon several years ago, had been transformed into a black-topped ersatz yard sale.
Since I'd sold only one pin during the four hours of the faux flea market, I inferred it had been Melissa who'd purchased it.
To confirm my recollection, I asked Melissa whether the transaction had occurred in the pantry parking lot.
Melissa replied, apologetically, that she didn't recall the occasion; her memory was impaired consequential to having been hit by a snowplow last December.
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