"Over a lifetime we've said good-bye in all sorts of ways: good-bye, I'll see you later; good-bye forever. Casual leavings and eternal departures.

"Pay attention to the different kinds that happen each day. Let them roll around in your mind. Make an inventory or list of good-bys in your notebook. Wake up to the phenomena of separation. We come together; then we part company.

"Notice the edge and poignancy of farewell and letting go. Both coming and going are important, but for a while look at the loaded situation, the dark experience of leaving. You've learned that detail is important but detail devoid of feeling is a marble rolling across a hard wood floor. The reason we want to write memoir is an ache, a longing, a passing of time that we feel all too strongly. If you want to recount your naval adventures, and it's a list of ships, positions, dates, time, it will be a nice record. But it will only be for you. It is not truly memoir.

"The thing that is hard about good-byes is that often there is no resolution. There is no sense to death either. Well, sure they died, but when are they coming back? Never? How is that possible? I forgot to tell them something.

"As a writer, you need to sniff out the snarls, the twists, the unsolvable situations. When you recall your father's two-day stubble, his cheap pipe, his long jowls, thick hands, and short neck, it is beyond judgment. It was someone you were full of feeling for — the details are imbued. He is no longer.

"But none of this is negative. You are standing on a corner in a northern city waiting for a bus in January and the smell of a peony cuts through your mind, a glimmer of light, warmth, soft color and you are ready to fall to your knees. Summer and summer and summer rush upon you. Memory comes in the present gushing with feeling. Writing your memoir is a big yes.

"Now back to particulars: list an inventory of good-byes, every time you can recall that you said good-bye. Not general, make your list specific:

Saying good-bye to my mother this July in Florida.
Good-bye to Mr. Clemente on the phone in 1989 — he was on Long Island; I was in New Mexico.
Good night to Ann last night sitting in the car. She kept on the headlights till I reached the front door.
Hugging Sandy and Louise in the rain under an alcove on San Francisco Street after having dinner together.
Slamming down the phone on a solicitor.

"Add to it over time. This will perk your awareness and curiosity."