I believe that memory is never lost， even when it seems to be， because it has more to do with the heart than the mind.

At the same time my 44-year-old husband， Ed， was losing his life， my mother was losing her ability to remember. As Ed’s lungs filled with cancer， Mom’s brain was becoming tangled in 2)plaque. She forgot how to start the car， whether or not she had eaten and which family members had died—including my father.

I became afraid that one day I， too， would be unable to recall my husband， not because of

3)Alzheimer’s， but simply because my memory of him might fade. So from the day of Ed’s diagnosis until his death a year later， I set out to memorize him: his 4)crooked smile and vigorous embrace， his 5)woodsy smell and the way he cleared his throat when he reached the top of the stairs. I knew I’d always be able to recite his qualities—kind， gentle， smart， funny—but I wanted to be able to 6)conjure up the physical man in my mind， as fully as possible， when he was gone.

Back then， I thought memory was a deliberate， cognitive process， like remembering multiplication tables or lyrics or where the keys were. Unable to rescue Ed from cancer， I was determined to save him from the only thing worse than dying: being forgotten.

Later I learned that memory has a will of its own. You can’t control it any more than you can influence the weather. When it 7)springs up， a person loved and lost is found， if only for a few seconds.

Recently when I was driving， I had a deep and sudden sense of Ed and the way it felt to have him next to me in the car. My body softened as it used to when we were together seven years ago， living a shared life. I wasn’t remembering his face or the way he walked; the careful details I had stored had nothing to do with this moment in the car. Looking in the 8)rearview mirror， I recognized in my own face the same look I once saw on my mother’s face in the nursing home. I had asked her a question about my father， and she became confused about his identity. Yet， as she sat there， dressed in a shapeless 9)polyester outfit， she briefly appeared young and radiant， her face filled with love and her eyes became misty. Her brain couldn’t label the man correctly， but that was not important. It was clear to me that her husband was vivid in her heart， a memory even Alzheimer’s could not crush.

I believe there is a difference between memory and remembering. Remembering has to do with turning the oven off before leaving the house， but memory is nurtured by emotion. It springs from a deeper well， safe from 10)dementia and the passage of time.

我相信，記憶是永不會喪失的，即便是隨著時間的流逝，它看似在喪失——因為記憶更多是留在心里，而不是腦海中。

那時候，我44歲的丈夫埃德一步步向死神靠近，同時，我母親也在一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)地喪失記憶。埃德得了肺癌，而母親的大腦則因腫瘤而變得記憶混亂。她忘記了怎樣開車，不記得自己是否吃過飯，也忘了哪些家庭成員已不在人世——包括我的父親。

我開始害怕有一天，自己也會無法回憶起丈夫，不是因為患了早老性癡呆病，而僅僅是因為我對他的記憶可能會漸漸消退。因此，從埃德確診的那一天開始到一年后他離去的這段時間里，我開始盡力去記住他的一切：他那壞壞的笑，那有力的擁抱，他身上那種木香，以及他爬上樓梯頂端之后清喉嚨的樣子。我知道我會一直記得他的一切品質(zhì)——和善、溫柔、聰明、風(fēng)趣——但是我想在他離開之后，自己能夠盡可能全面地將他完整而生動地呈現(xiàn)在腦海中。

那時，我認(rèn)為記憶是一個需要細(xì)心思量的認(rèn)知過程，就像記住乘法口訣表、歌詞，或者鑰匙放在什么地方那樣。我無法將埃德從癌癥的魔掌中拯救出來，但我決心牢牢記住他——被遺忘是唯一比死亡更糟糕的事。

后來，我認(rèn)識到記憶本身是有自主意愿的。你無法控制它，就像你無法影響天氣一樣。記憶一旦涌現(xiàn)，已失去的摯愛之人就會出現(xiàn)在你面前，即便只有幾秒鐘。

最近，我在開車的時候，突然有種很強(qiáng)烈的感覺，覺得埃德好像就坐在我身邊。我的身體很放松，這跟7年前我們共同生活時的感覺一模一樣。在那一刻，我并沒有想起他的臉或者他走路的樣子，我記得的所有充滿掛念的細(xì)節(jié)都跟此刻車?yán)锇l(fā)生的情景無關(guān)。透過車?yán)锏暮笠曠R，我看到自己的表情和在療養(yǎng)院里看到過的母親臉上那表情是一樣的。當(dāng)時，我問了她關(guān)于父親的一個問題，她一臉迷惑，弄不清他是家中何人。然而，她坐在那里，穿著松垮的滌綸外套，有一瞬間她看起來年輕而富有光彩，臉上充滿了愛意，眼神變得朦朧而傷感。她的腦子無法辨認(rèn)這個男人，但這并不重要。我清楚地知道，她丈夫活在她心中，這是一種即使是老年癡呆癥也無法摧毀的記憶。

我相信，“記憶”和“記得”兩者之間是有區(qū)別的?！坝浀谩笔请x家之前記得關(guān)掉烤箱，但“記憶”則是因感情而催生。它來自于更深處，而且不會因老年癡呆癥或者時間的流逝而消退。