Someone graciously lent me a copy of Nora Ephron’s I Remember Nothing: And Other Reflections. The essays frame aging in thoughtful reflections, with Ephron’s unique and refreshing look at life. They resonate in an honest yet gentle way that provoked this reader to laughter and tears. The book ends with a list of “What I Will Miss” and “What I Won’t Miss,” and I decided to start lists for myself.
My Won’t Miss list includes: colonoscopies, Seattle winter weather and the dark circles under my eyes. My Will Miss list is headed by: the man who hugs me every day, hot showers and sunshine.
After I read the book I intended to return it to the lender. It was obviously a much-loved book as it was filled with notes and plastered with stickies (which I crumpled a bit, but kept carefully in place).
The only problem was that I had forgotten who loaned me the book.
I searched my memory. Nothing. The most likely lenders were members of my book club. I selected the most obvious suspect and wrote an embarrassing email. “Someone loaned me this book but I can’t remember who it was. Could it have been you?” Unfortunately, no, so I bared myself again and tried a second book club member. Negative again.
At this point I turned to my writing group. There might be a likely suspect in that group and there was. Someone my age, someone with a sense of humor. I contacted her. She responded that she couldn’t remember if she had purchased it. “Can’t remember lending it to you,” she said, “but lately, I can’t remember where I’ve parked my car at work.” She promised to check her Kindle list and a while later she responded. “Doesn’t sound like my book. Good luck in finding its home.”
Now where to look? I got out my address book and searched through it. I eliminated out-of-towners. Although I could not remember who gave me the book, I remembered that it was handed to me personally. Then I eliminated men. I know some very enlightened men, but they would not have read Nora Ephron. I eliminated those under the age of 50 and studied the list. A neighbor’s name emerged and, screwing my courage to the sticking post, I wrote to her: “At this point I am feeling pretty foolish. Someone loaned me a book and I cannot remember who loaned it to me. I have tried to return it to several different friends but no success so far. Ironically, the book is I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron. Did you loan me the book?” My neighbor responded: “Yes, I loaned you the book. We discussed our poor memories, so I thought you would enjoy this book as much as I did.”
My neighbor, however, was traveling out of the country so I set the book aside to return when she was back in the neighborhood. A week ago, while cleaning up the clutter in my office, I found the book again, now many months in my possession. I immediately sent an email asking when I could drop off the book. She responded that she had “totally forgotten” about the book, but I could bring it anytime.
Feeling the need to apologize for being so careless with someone’s well-annotated book, I returned it with a small pot of daisies. As I walked up to her front door, I could not help thinking that if there is an afterlife, Nora Ephron is probably chuckling.
