Mary Lou Retton had a mouth large enough to accomodate a globe.

I used to take those glitter-filled flexible bracelets, put them in my mouth so they'd stretch my lips back exposing my teeth, and tell my parents I was Mary Lou. That's what I remember about the 1984 Olympics.

My seventh grade math teacher had fat elbows that, when her arm was extended, resembled the face of a Cabbage Patch Kid. That's what I remember about pre-algebra.

My grandparents' house smells of cabbage and Muriel Air Tip cigars, and their linoleum looks like head cheese. That's what I think of when I imagine their home.

I remember the taste of blood and grape popsicle mingling in my mouth, after I stuck my tongue to the monkey bar pole in winter, at the park near my house in Silver Bay.

I recall the way the "Sweet Pickles" books from the library used to smell. The pages were glossy and I wanted to lick them.

I remember gazing at the gowns on princesses in fairy tale stories, and reveling in the beautiful colors and intricacies of their designs. They were so alluring and visually decadent that they almost confused my senses to the point that they seemed to possess flavors.

Every city I lived in had a scent. I can remember them, although I'd be hard-pressed to recall my former addresses. I certainly don't remember my old phone numbers.

I've been told I have a head for useless, inane detail, and not much capacity for recalling tangible, useful information.

Impractical as it might be, I'm content to live in my own brain, haphazard as my thoughts generally are. Would I rather remember where I left my kids' immunization records, or how the crook of their tiny necks smelled when they were infants?

Easy. I can always get new records.