All of the events of 1967 are gone. For me, it's exactly the same as not having lived that year. Surely, I must have read a book in 1967, made a trip, had a success, met a friend, learned a lesson. It's all gone. Other years, too. Divorce does that to you.
Couples take note: Human memory is a shared resource. If you doubt that, try this experiment: Recall an anecdote in the presence of your spouse; in the middle of the telling, hesitate.
If the story occurred within the marriage, he or she will supply the missing parts -- often including incidents you had forgotten, reinforcing what had naturally faded out. On the other hand, if your reminiscence transcends the marriage -- or worse, draws from events in a previous marriage -- well, as a courtesy to your present mate, you probably won't tell it. Not that doing so would bother your partner especially, it's a matter of manners. Enough years of not telling and a tale evaporates.
Divorce dehydrates your brain, dessicates your mind. Anybody ever mention that? Unless you expect to have a perfect marriage, keep a diary.
What is a year worth to you? If it's a future year, quite a lot, I'm sure. Imagine a red-hooded satanic figure with horns and tail showing up on your doorstep.
"How much for 1997?" he asks, checkbook in hand. "A million bucks?"
Nothing doing, you say.
"Well, then, let's talk about 1967."
NOTE: The year 1997 was still in the future when "sequigamnesia" was first published. The reader is invited to substitute an appropriate year in his or her own future to assure the meaning of this essay.