Goofle-dork

I woke up a few mornings ago and a memory thunderbolted my brain: Eric’s morning stretches! Each day he’d get out of bed and do a series of movements: hands on his hips and bend right, hands on his hips and bend left, then down to touch his toes, then arms up toward the ceiling. Often I’d stay in bed and wolf-whistle at him. Which prompted him to drop his boxers so I could see his butt. Sometimes he’d shake his buns and make a show of it. Sometimes he’d make me get out of bed to join him, and then he’d mock me because I can’t touch my toes.

This went on every day for at least 15 years. Almost until the very end, when the stroke happened. How could I forget something so integral? So daily? So recent?

It happened again soon after. The word “goofle-dork” smashed into my mind. That’s a combo of goofus plus dork, and it’s what I called Eric (with affection) when he’d do something silly, like dance. I used that word all the time.

How could I forget? It baffles me. And scares me. How will I remember? How will I know when I don’t remember?

Maybe it boils down to this: What keeps memories alive? Stories. Like the one I’m writing here.

This is what a goofle-dork looks like.