My brain told me the face was familiar, but the name floated out somewhere in the ether, just beyond my reach. 

Standing stock still, my body in panic mode, my brain turned itself inside out until it came to me. This woman standing beside the rows of vintage clothing at the local artisan fair, this woman who’d said a cheery hello, indicating she knew me, was in fact my round-the-corner neighbor and owner of one of the fluffiest dogs I’ve ever met. 

Now I could say “hello, how are things going?” and actually care about the answer. 

After we’d hit on all the usual topics — the horrors of winter, an update on my daughter at college, etc., — it was time to move on to the next fair booth and the next “out of context” familiar face. 

The recognition came more quickly this time, although I still had a moment of internal panic, staring at the face before me knowing it should look familiar but unable to understand why. And then the memory came skipping to the surface of my squirrelly brain.This woman’s face was one I’d seen in the halls of my high school every day for years. Phew. Emergency averted.

I could say “hello, nice to see you” and actually mean it. 

I’d like to say I always mean it, but the truth is a bit more complicated than that. 

I’ve taken tens of thousands of photos at parades, graduations, visits with Santa and so much more. I’ve encountered thousands of Sullivan County residents and visitors alike, scribbling their names down in my reporter’s notebook. At some point, my brain threw up its hands and said “Sorry, but if you insist on meeting more people, I’ve got to free up some space for all this new information.” 

These days I find myself doing a whole lot of apologizing. 

“I’m sorry,” I’ll say to a mother I’ve known since we were kids. “I can’t remember which of your kids is which.”

“I’m sorry,” I’ll say to the set of identical twins who have spent time in front of my lens dozens of times. “I should know who is who by now!”

“I’m sorry,” I’ll say to the parade watcher who I’ve approached to inquire about their name for the paper, only to realize I’ve known them for a decade or more. “My brain is refusing to give me your name.”

If you’re the next victim of my elusive memory, allow me to offer up this advance apology. It’s not you. It’s me.