I remember a German Shepherd. I could see out the kitchen window where the dog waited outside, watching me. I remember a feeling of sadness, a sense of knowing the dog wanted in, possibly a sense of loneliness because the dog wasn’t with me, but that could be me projecting on to the memory. I asked my mom about the dog once because I have no other memories of it. She said I couldn’t remember him because I was only six months old. It was a neighbor’s dog she was babysitting and it bonded with me and didn’t like anyone coming close, so she had put him outside where he then watched me through the window. She said she’d forgotten it until I asked her.

Maybe I was six months old, but I remember. It’s a clear image of the dog and the window, and a sense of emotions that I can put a name to now.

It made me think about how we remember. When you say ‘I remember…’ or ‘that reminds me of…’ do you think of it like a story, in words? Do you suddenly see the memory like an old movie or photo? Do you hear the voices of those involved? I strive to focus on what a memory is like when one surfaces. I think, for me, it’s a narrative, a sudden story, the associated emotions, and maybe, rarely, an image or visual.

Of course, the way my brain wanders, those thoughts sent me down the path of inherited memory, which I believe in for several reasons. One is a conversation with a person writing a thesis on inherited memory as a premise for deja vu. One comes from a conversation with a best friend who is an expert on genealogy and the odd things she’s come across. Plus, my own experience of feeling immediate emotional ties to a specific place, that sudden strong sense of being home, where I belong.

That path then led me down a side trail out to our hot tub on Samhain. Sitting in hot water in the darkness on the day when we honor our ancestors got me thinking of the countless generations, the thousands of years, the billions of people, who lived their lives and contributed to our DNA. Think of the trillions of memories and stories that have come down through time and been lost to time. Think about all of that held in what makes you, stored in your blood. So many, many memories, that you have no memory of. So many, many stories you’ve never heard, from people you never knew, that are part of your ancestry.

Don’t you wish you could hear them? Someone from the days of cave art sitting by a fire sharing with you the inspiration for their need to place their hand against stone and leave an imprint. Someone accused of witchcraft. Someone washing clothes in a stream on the Oregon Trail.

It blows me away to try and comprehend all the memories that were part of creating my DNA.

Especially when, while I remember that beautiful dog at the window, I can’t remember what I did last week.