Proust says memory is of two kinds.
There is the daily struggle to recall
where we put our reading glasses
and there is a deeper gust of longing
that comes up from the bottom
of the heart
At sudden times
For surprise reasons.
Here is an excerpt from a letter Proust wrote
We think we no longer love our dead
But that is because we do not remember them;
We catch sight of an old glove
And burst into tears.
– Anne Carson, Float