Our Memories By Linda Stowe
Last night I heard this passage in a book (My Friends by Fredrik Backman) in which one of the characters was remembering what he considered the happiest moment of his life. The character, now aged 39, was 14 at the time of his memory. That was sad, but not unusual for characters in Backman’s books.
Later, I thought about some of my own happy moments and why they made me happy. One that is particularly vivid took place back in my drinking days. One warm summer night my new boyfriend and I went skinny dipping in a creek in a farm in Greene County with another couple. I couldn’t tell you where the creek was, who the other couple was, or even the name of my boyfriend. All I remember was the warm summer air, the full moon, and sheep gazing at us from a nearby field. In that moment I felt the freedom of a child who is fully in the moment. I don’t know why that memory sticks with me, but it does.
Now, years later, in more sober times I spend my days sorting through and culling souvenirs of other memories. I feel like I am in limbo, holding onto things that have meaning for no one except me. And even as I throw away the deck of tarot cards, or the picture, or the short story, nothing will change. No one but me thinks about these things and my memories will stay with me until the end.
~~~~~~~
Polly here.
This was beautiful in so many ways. It was poetic and profound in the same moment. Our memories are our own.
All of this made me a little bit sad. When we are younger, we gather these things, these souvenirs of our moments, our adventures, our interactions with the world. The ticket stub. The dinner receipt. The photo from the roller coaster ride with our hands above our heads. We’re smiling but screaming.
But as time passes, and the dust collects, we later regard these things. We pick them up and consider them, remembering that day when we made sure to keep this playbill or the book of matches. We contemplate the meaning of it. That time is gone now, by 20, 30, or 50 years. For many of us, there is no one else around to remember the moment. Just us. And our memory.
And inside? We are smiling, but we are also crying. Or screaming. Time continues to pass. And our lives are passing with it. Hopefully, we have left little bits of goodness behind. Perhaps a part of us continues to live in kindness. Somewhere. Somehow.
