Memory

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.

I’ve realized that years have gone by since I’ve written in the Madman world, and now I write with a wife in the next room, a son taking a nap, and life has become a bit fuller. And these things I hope to remember.