I used to know the pattern of my parents’ stairs—how many before the landing and the left turn, where the squeaks were and how to navigate my way silently through a century-old house in the dark.

I used to know instinctually when we were coming to the right turn on back country roads, not because of the markers or road names, but because the lay of the land was right, the houses and fields were in the right places.

I used to know all the important and unimportant phone numbers. Mom and Dad’s business, grandparents’ houses, friends’, Connie’s Country Kitchen for making to-go orders.

I used to know what mood Hilary was in by how she carried herself around our apartment, or if she’d come in humming. I even knew which whistles were for fun, and which were for covering the awkward silence during more tense times.

I used to know who was coming down the hall at Oasis by the sound of their steps on the laminate flooring and how they closed their doors.

I know when Joe finds his story by how he types on his keyboard.

I know how things work… like, I could find my way to anyplace in Omaha because I know the system. 

But there are many things I don’t know… And I think I can give up knowing all the things I think I know but really do not.

Maybe it’s that I can give up pretending to know.

Have you heard of x?

Do you know y?

Oh, hm. The name sounds familiar.

I try now not to say that unless it’s true. “I don’t think so” is actually pretty easy to say.

Or in trivia games designed to show how much useless shit you can cram into that ol’ brain of yours. There are still ways to pretend you know. “Ohhh, of course. I should have known!” Or “Dangit. I wish I would have gotten that question!”

A trait I truly admire is when people can ask what something is with complete innocence. No guilt, no shame about not knowing.

A thing I hate is when people say, “You don’t know what that is?” No. Or if I do, it isn’t registering. Please jog my memory.

I can give up knowing.

I remember forgetting my seventh-grade ex-boyfriend’s phone number. And by boyfriend, I of course mean that we “dated” for like a week. We started going out at a movie we both happened to be at with groups of our own friends. And we met up at a basketball game on a Wednesday night. We did talk on the phone though.

Phone numbers were so easy then. Especially in my area. No area code necessary. And the first three digits told which of four or five dinky towns in our county you were from. So really, it was four numbers. Four digits to recall. Or, in this case, forget.

Start to think about it during math the day after I broke up with him over the phone. Then tell myself, “I don’t remember his number.” It creeps up during homeroom. “I have forgotten his phone number.”

I don’t know why this seemed such a key step in moving on. Maybe because it was the only thing we shared. I wanted to let go of him.