"Your memory is a monster"

What scares me: being convinced of a memory, only to confirm that I had it wrong all along

March 18 was the day they punched a hole in my marriage certificate. The thing no one ever looks at or hangs on a wall. The thing kept in an old plastic bag, if it's lucky. The only thing I could think, as I paged through the documents held together by a cord strung through holes on the corner of each page: how dare they punch a hole in my marriage certificate. It's done on special paper, you know, the kind you can't photocopy, like money, or college transcripts. They just punched a hole in it all willy-nilly. I hate them, and I hate me.