Nobody’s memory is perfect or complete. We jumble things up. We lose track of time. We are in one place and another. And it all feels like one long, inescapable moment. It’s just like my mother used to say: The carousel never stops turning. They say we can repress our memories. I wonder if we’re just keeping them safe somewhere. Because no matter how painful they are, they are our most valuable possessions. Our lives are built on our mistakes as much as our successes. They made us who we are.