Certain things encoded into memory. Not grand events, just days when some hidden recorder in the brain happened to be busy collecting sounds, images, and moods, queuing them up on the mental playlist where they are frequently recalled. Days that are otherwise forgettable. It can happen anywhere: during a class, at the workplace, or in line at the grocery store. One day indistinguishable from the next except that it is somehow stuck in the forefront of memory. Moments replay in the head like old newsreels. They intermix with dreams and take on a mythology all their own. Bright July day, 1989, when RB housesat on Davis Island: rolling around on the roof across hot gritty shingles, all scraped knees and copper-tone tans and aquamarine sea.