Mem’ries,
Light the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were.
There is always a lot to be grateful for—from the mundane (until it’s not!) food, health, job, husband, cats, etc.—but then there’s the things you don’t think about much—until like everything else, they’re gone. Like memories.
When I was younger I was a voracious reader. I would take out ten books at a time, and schlep them the seven blocks home. As I had quickly read through the YA collection, I was given a special “dispensation” to take out books in the Adult Section as well.
I had no idea what to take out—I was the proverbial child in a candy store, with what appeared to me a limitless supply of books, everything I could get my hands on. There were no filters, no limitation, no one checking or approving my choices. So at age ten, I was free to read and devoured everything from Anna Karenina to Belle de Jour, barely understanding what was going on.
But one year, when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, right before Halloween, I read a book of scary stories. And in one of those stories, the author wrote that the story was written solely for me to read, placed in my book alone, because he/she was out to get me, and if I looked at the edges of the paper in the book, I would see that the pages of the story were different from all the other pages (they were!) It scared the literal shit out of me.
I remember it still today.
We’re all really moved by the vision of people with Alzheimer’s or devastating senility. People who don’t remember their friends and colleagues, even their spouse and children. Whether it’s in a movie, or we experience the tragedy first hand, it takes our breath away. To lose all those memories, trips to Europe, honors received, funny family gatherings, remarkable books, luminous films, bizarre boyfriends, close calls with death, seems simply too much to bear.
I have many memories that pop up, uncalled for, at all sorts of times. Many times I’m aware of the trigger. Other times, not really. Most of them are good, or even neutral, but some are quite painful. But I’m grateful that I have them all, because they make up the whole of me.
What seems like a thousand years ago, I saw the film Julia. I was depressed for days, the last image of Lillian Hellman (aka Jane Fonda) having outlived all her lovers and friends, with no one to share the memories. No one to say, “Hey, do you remember when…?” It still moves me – but the specter of not having someone to share one’s past, pales in comparison with not having your treasure chest of memories to enjoy on your own.
I am grateful that I still have my trove of memories to dip into daily and enjoy. I am excited about future possibilities; still have a list of things to accomplish: dearly love my chocolate; but my memories are truly the nourishment for my soul.
