When I was in middle school, I read this fascinating book that introduced me to the magic of the scary story.

The kind you tell in the dark. Or around a campfire.

As I recall, there were two or three of these collections of short horror stories. Yet, I’ve never been able to remember enough of any of these stories to Google any of them. Which almost makes sense, as the books predate the “information age.”

More on that later.

Anyway, yesterday I remembered something. There was this story.

Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl is always wearing the same scarf… and refuses to take it off.

And I’ll stop there. That was enough to Google. And now the book is waiting patiently for me to place my next Amazon order.

I was afraid that memory was lost forever. Like. That. Other. Book.

Certainly, I can’t be the only one that remembers songs, stories, &c. from my past in dreams… can I?

Everyone has a gift. A superpower, if you will.

Mine?

Well, it’s not my ability to peel an orange in a single piece of rind.

It’s not my ability to identify a piece of music, or a movie, no matter how obscure, with a random snippet. Which is utterly worthless, except as a party trick.

It’s not even my ability to tell the time—without looking. Nor my gift for attracting traffic to intersections/red lights.

There is nothing I do better, than hide things.

From myself.

Indeed. This. Is my superpower.

How frustrating.