I remember things all the time. Constantly. This is why it's really hard to live in the moment as you get older, all those pesky memories keep seeping into the moments.

The first enduring memory is a little after my second birthday before my younger brother was born. A moment with my pregnant mother, still with long hair, the late afternoon light yellow in the room. And then memory skips to the day my younger brother was born.

I had my first sip of beer when I was four or so, my dad was drinking a Coors with a neighbor in our backyard. It was a taste I'd never had before. And wouldn't have again until I was seventeen or so.

I went to a party with my oldest friend when we were in high school (I was visiting), and she, being much cooler than me, had a boyfriend and went to parties where people drank--and they all knew about Jane's Addiction. When she asked me what I wanted to drink (she also knew someone who would buy), I said Coors. Because that's what came to my head first. I think I had maybe two of those beers that night.

Death was not understood for my first ten years or so. My parents would tell us kids of older relatives who had died from time to time. But we didn't know these people, and so it was hard to miss them. When my Grandma Worley got sick, I knew something was up. Everyone was acting like this was it. It with a capital IT.

I started praying to God for the first time. It was short and simple. Don't let Grandma die. Her death did not dissuade me from believing in God. I prayed for different things after she died, and it was nightly habit to silently pray for one thing or another. And occasionally I would pray at school--when a test was getting the best of me.

But Grandma dying, that was when I found out what death meant. Forever is what it meant. You could remember them, but you'd never see them alive again. Never talk to them again. Never play Pit with them again. And they'd never fix you breakfast again. The house in Portales was always colder after she died. Some of the color went away.

I answered the phone call about Grandpa Worley, years later. And I knew what was up (even though my uncle didn't actually tell me the news, just asked for my dad) from the moment I heard my uncle's voice.

Is this the memorials we're all talking about?

Memorial Day is about the dead. Which explains the barbecues and comfort food. The military dead get eulogized. We tell everyone about sacrifice, thank the dead for what they've given, put little flags on their graves. And we hope it was worth it. Maybe this is the day we pretend all the deaths really are worth it.

I don't want to rank importance of the dead.

Is the death of a grandmother worth more or less than the death of a soldier? Is the death of my friend Brian back in November of 2001 worth more or less than any of the people who died just a little over a month before? Is death scary because we feel we have so much to lose or because we don't know what happens after?

Maybe we've all died a million times over, we just don't look at them as deaths. Just growing up. We are no longer friends with people we trusted with our deepest secrets. Is that a death? Should we mourn our former selves?

I was a different person a few months ago. Not a hugely different person, but different nonetheless. I lost something, I gained something. I'm a little bit off from that time.

But I remember what it was like. And I remember how my old friends were. I remember the good times we had, and the reasons we don't talk anymore. I don't really regret either.

Don't let the memories of the dead consume you. Don't let the past enslave you to a certain path in the future. Live, learn, discard.

And remember, flowers are nice. People like flowers, even though they tend to wilt and die rather quickly after they're given.

Matt Worley remembers what he can.