Last Friday, February 1, would have been my father's ninety-ninth birthday.  It's hard to believe, really, that that much time has passed since he was born, and equally difficult to realize that he's been gone over thirty-five years.
     When I contemplate the enormity of time, the vastness of the years that have elapsed since my father came into and, sadly, went out of the world, I think about Marcel Proust's masterpiece, In Search of Lost Time, and its profound and trenchant observations on the fact of memory.
     What will we remember?  What will we forget?
     And what, when time passes forever, will remain?