Just a glowing ball of light indicating a memory, like a mental, 'You've got mail!'
I then put the magazine down and did some chores. Ironing, to be precise.
And that's where I found it.
Memory isn't in the brain.
It's not! I've seen brains. Human, animal, I've seen them in the worst way, splattered on pavement, on walls. I've seen them in the best way, housed neatly in chemicals and stored in air tight jars in a laboratory. I've seen them thinly sliced and laid out on slides and I have peered at them through a microscope.
Never saw a memory there.
I did, however see a memory in a can of starch.
My mother taught me how to iron.
The scratching, retching squeal of metal on ungreased metal as the legs deployed out and the unique scent of iron rich water turning to steam from the bottom of the iron, the spring wrapped cord lifting out of the back like a puppy's tail.
And the smell of starch, clean and sharp.
In the Marine Corps it didn't take long before everyone knew that sound and started lining up with their inspection shirts and bribes of beer or promises to get me to put a deadly straight crease in their trousers.
Someone, armed with tiny, tiny scissors, would Irish Pennant my blouse in trade for a wrinkle free, 5.0 uniform.
The barracks, Marines walking about in flip-flops, field day, the whirring of the floor buffer, the scratching wool of Dura-glit brass polish.
All that memory! There, in a can of starch that I bought yesterday!
National Geographic? You're looking in the wrong place for memory. Stop by and I'll loan you my can of starch.