A Memory I Still Don't Understand
I have tried several times to tell this story.
Each time I have failed. My stilted attempts are those of somebody working to extract meaning from an experience he is still struggling to understand. While I remember the events that transpired and the order in which they took place, when I try to convey why I care so much about what happened, I stumble. Part of that is because the story itself is incomplete.
And yet this story occupies a heavily annotated space in my memory. It wasn’t horrible or traumatic, hilarious or unbelievable. It is, in some ways, just another abandoned subplot from a time full of unclear endings. But, because I still wish to understand it, I find myself here, once again, trying to turn an ellipsis into a period.
And while this story takes place in Florence, Italy, it really starts with Jerry.
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