Feast of the Assumption.
In which I remember arriving in a new city to begin graduate study, not having secured an apartment in advance. (Such things were possible, once.) Walking through the carnival for the feast in the old Italian neighborhood, asking at the raffle table where there might be listings for apartments. They pointed me to the rectory next to the old brick church. I knocked at the door and asked if they knew of anyone looking to rent an apartment. They went back into the kitchen for a moment and came back with a typed list, using which which I found an upstairs one-bedroom in an old wooden building a few blocks away.
One of the first things I bought were some small basil and oregano plants, kept on the old kitchen counters. The orchestra was a short walk away, and the tickets were inexpensive. The brand-new university library wasn't immense, but it was sufficient. The artistic studios were the same rooms that were in use in the 1920s and 1930s, in the first popular flourishing of the modern American arts. It was a beginning.
Commemoration is memory. Remembering is an action; it can either be the case or not be the case. Simply speaking the word "memory" isn't some sort of a spell that can provoke the condition. You must do these things, however small and insignificant they might seem.