Room To Write Response 1 - I Don't Remember

There is a wonderful book that is a guide for writers called, Room To Write, by Bonni Goldberg. I'm going to use it as a springboard to get myself back writing again. So, here is the first prompt I will try to tackle, let's see how this goes.

"Begin with the phrase, 'I don't remember' and fill up a page. If you draw a blank at any point repeat the phrase in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Notice what non-memories emerge: are they the same themes you often write about? If no0t, further explore one of the new ones"

"Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door"-Emily Dickinson

I don't remember what my Papa's voice sounds like. I remember snapshots taken by my parents and put into old brown photo albums that live on the shelf in my mother's living room. I remember the feel of his hands, almost like worn-in sandpaper, with a comfortable strength about them. I remember that he was gentle. Or is that what everyone told me? I can't remember his voice, or his thick, German accent that my Grandma, at ninety-something, still has. It bothers me that I can't remember his voice, because I'd like to hear it right now. I'm getting married in seven days and I'm scared. I don't know what the future will bring, and I wish I had some wisdom from the past to help me put things in perspective. I remember Nanny's voice, and Natalie's, but not his. And I really wish I did, because I think he would have a lot of good insight and wise words for me, and in general. I would want to ask him questions. What was it like losing your profession? How did you meet Grandma? What made you fall in love with her? What was my father like as a little boy? Did you love my mother as much as she loved you? Joanne has such vivid memories and stories about Max. How does she keep them alive? How does one keep memories from fading? Is it a series of repeated excercises, done daily, like Pilates, or stomach crunches? Is it a matter of rehashing the past so often that it sits in your stomach like a rock that can't be moved? I don't remember what my Papa's voice sounds like, and it makes me angry. I don't remember what my Papa's voice sounds like, and it makes me resentful. Why do people die as single units? To leave someone else alone? Why can't we go in pairs, peacefully, in our sleep? I know that the world is not neat and tidy like that. I know it can't be wrapped up with a bow and placed in a box. But, for once, I wish there was some certainty in my life.