the writer has to endure the scrutiny of the mother who doesnt approve of you not remembering the interesting things , the stories you will need to round up later that she is telling then , but afterwards when its all explained , imperfectly again , the writer remembers again and remembers it better in a newer form , better than anyone else who was there , for that is my job , and the shame of not remembering is enough to drive the writer to drink , like ralph , and to writing about ralph , and mikey and ping pongs and to reconstruct , imperfectly , the perfect conversation of ralph and his wife with my mother as they picked pomegranates outside mikeys room that day , years ago .