For Christmas my mother gave me a leather bound empty journal with an old buffalo nickel snap clasp that she had also once given to my grandfather late in his life. He was a compulsive chronicler who never used it, telling her it was too nice. I decided it was a good place to stash memories from my life, because my memories are like a random pile of view-master discs, and I’m frightened and disgusted by people who remember everything, till I recall that every memory is a recreation (in any way you pronounce the word), at best only true in spirit, and that people with good memories are simply better storytellers or reconstructionists (liars) than me. So I decided to use that journal to get with the lying and, by the end of the first page, discovered why my grandpa didn’t use it–because writing in perfect bound books is a pain in the ass. At the age of 80, when he received it, he would have found it more difficult than I to use. His journals were almost all spiral or ring bound books that lay flat. So I’m going to cut out the few pages I’ve filled, get myself a flat-out journal, slide it behind the buffalo nickel, and paste in the representative pages from the old journal. Then give the old book with its pages turned the color of baked meringue–which, for paper, must be the color of entropy–to young Sophie to fill up with art and observations if she wishes.