Memories may be beautiful and yet. . . .

. . . and yet, here are some things that I remember more clearly than I remember my postal code:

Tin foil gleaming dully in the dirt in the Curle's backyard. We'd just dug up the small white dog they'd buried there a week or so earlier, after the mister had run it over in the driveway. I was six.
The pattern on the shower tiles from the house we lived in 31 years ago.
The smell of my Medieval Welsh professor's breath the morning that the US bombed Libya in 1986.
How it felt to dig a chunk of carrot out of the hole in my gum left by my recently departed wisdom tooth.
The bandage on the knee of the little pony who hurt himself on a cob of corn in one of my least-favorite childhood books, the name of which escapes me.
The bathroom window on the seventh floor of the old Herald Building, where my dentist used to be.
The phone number of at least four people I haven't spoken to since elementary school three and a half decades ago.
The Willard poster hanging in the basement at Eva S's house. I last saw her in Grade 9.
Liver in a plastic container on the kitchen counter of the same house featuring the apparently memorable shower tiles.