I am struck by how much my memory tricks me,
pulls a fast one.
Am I really that old?
I’m sooooo sure I know where that writing went to,
I can see it in my head, my scrawl, in pink ink.
The scrubby coil notebook with the red cover. And then,
after looking and looking I realize
the words aren’t where I left them at all.
Something triggers a brain cell,
the one that’s been sleeping, and I know.
It’s not in hard copy it’s in digital.
Ones and zeros and pixels.
No pink in sight.
The dot doc file is sitting there, happily undisturbed,
dutifully backed up by Mozy, watching me fuss in confusion,
a smug look on its face.