Memory
I spent the
morning in some much needed solitude, reading, and then going through old boxes
and files of papers. For years, I’ve kept notes, ideas for stories, and pictures—in
random boxes—promising myself that one day I would go through them and organize
them. Often, those days have not come and the pile of scraps and notes has
accumulated over the years. In recent months, however, I’ve been able to turn
over a new leaf and have begun purging old papers. My wife would agree that it
is about time: there are at least half a dozen boxes with these random scraps
and memorabilia, half of which I don’t remember where they come from.
As I unload
a box, dead faces look up at me, photographs of friends and family members who
are now gone, or are changed. The world has moved on, and some of these
photographs are of twenty or thirty year old memories. Some of the faces are
familiar, though in the pictures they are fresher, less careworn by time and
stresses of living, having families, working, and paying bills.
For me,
going through these boxes is an exercise in grief. The once present is now
past. Do I feel some relief in downsizing and getting rid of these odd papers,
emails, or notes that are now disconnected? Yes . . . somewhat. Yet with the
relief, I’m also transported again to the room or town where and when I wrote
the ideas down. I’ve captured a moment that will disappear again once I throw
this last piece away.
Many of
these things I wrote when I was single, living in cities where I knew no one, hoping
that someday I would be seen: by family, by friends, etc., and these pieces
were a lifeline so I could remember what I had been thinking and doing when there
was no one there to notice. And there’s something else. I’ve realized more
recently that my family’s heritage of Alzheimer’s has haunted my steps more
than I would have admitted when I was younger. I write things down so that I
don’t forget, and I’m afraid of forgetting even the smallest things.
Writing is
these things to me. Some people take pictures that they can look at years
later. I write. It’s a way to remember, to be seen, to create and think out
loud, even if in a vacuum. If you’re reading this, maybe it is these things for
you as well.
