I don’t trust memory. I fear it. I can’t recall if I have ever written or even told anyone about this before. Aside from close friends, I probably would never mention it out loud. But there is something inherent in writing that propels me to tell the truth. It’s the one rule I won’t break. I think I fear—as if I were to curse the spirit—that it would be unforgivable. If I set a precedent of hiding myself in writing, I fear it would snowball on me.

There is a lot I don’t know or only half-know about the Soveran side of my family. I never met my grandfather. He died before I was born. And he had Alzheimer’s. Now I don’t know if that’s why he died, but I am pretty sure he had it. I don’t know anything about Alzheimer’s—except that you loose your memory and, I think, it’s hereditary. And without analyzing myself too much, some how with all that knowledge put together, I am pretty sure that at some point my memory will turn on me.

I developed this fear early. You always develop the best stuff early. In grade 5, two years after we bought the Honda Civic brand new, I continuously forgot my homework. It’s not that I wasn’t trying to neglect it or didn’t want to do it (well, who really wants to do homework?), but I simply couldn’t remember. My best guess is that somewhere between there and being a teenager, I gave up on memory. Or, rather, I went the complete opposite direction and thought I would simply remember everything. I didn’t take pictures. I didn’t have people sign my yearbook. I have no real evidence that I was ever a teenager. But I did tie my memories to physical things.

I have a theory about my memory. I tie my memories to physical things and if I lose that physical item then slowly the memory will go too. I will have no reason to recall the memory, thus keeping it alive.

At some point in 1990, my parents bought a brand new Honda Civic. At that point I would have been 8. I clearly can’t remember family trips. I feel as though I can remember one point when the Civic’s fan actually blew cold air. I can remember the roof rack. I can remember going to the farm. The second farm, when my grandmother remarried. John’s farm, where I learned to drive.

There are certain moments, not overtly large ones, but a handful of moments that I am proud of. One such moment, is when I turned 16 and took the test to get my driver’s license. I was in the Civic. If you had more than ten demerits, you didn’t pass. I passed the first time, 8 demerits, in a standard. Lots of people get their license their first time, but how many of them do it with a standard transmission? From that point on, I have many memories. Learning to understand Regina’s road system, cruising Albert St., driving back and forth from summer camps, visiting friends in other cities, going on dates, driving to Calgary to see if things would work out with Leah (Spoiler Alert: Things worked out). There are so many memories and for the most part, would be uninteresting to recount—or too interesting. And they are my memories, for me and I don’t want to lose them.

The thought of losing the Civic nearly brings me to tears. I get physically sick at the thought. It’s not just some material possession. It’s been part of my life for 18 years, 10 of which I was driving it. There is a lot tied up in it. It’s part of my trademark, part of who I am and now I have to let it go.

I realize now that my memory is probably not something to fear. Or at least not as much. Or I have time before it turns on me. I have at least learned to take pictures (which are on Flickr) so that even though the car is going to go (to the Kidney Foundation) I will hopefully be able to recall all my memories from the pictures.

Please feel free to leave any memories you have of the Civic.

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