I don't have a particularly good memory. I often wish it were better. Who wouldn't?
Probably my first memory is of a group of kids – cousins and neighbors on the sidewalk in front of our house on 58 Rd. in Flushing. I was about 3. My cousin Valdy was there. Looking down on it from his family's second floor apartment window, I can see my blue plastic scooter bike at the center of the kids' action. . As I recall that scene, it's all about perspective. Like life.
Since that first memory of mine is at an age slightly younger than my Ana and Noah are now, I wonder what they'll remember. Will he remember the snazzy blue bike he proudly rides so recklessly right now? Will she remember the impromptu dance routines through multiple wardrobe changes that she puts on for us at her whim? Or something Disney?
I also remember, much more recently, coming home from the hospital on Halloween wondering how many more of these I'd get to enjoy with Ana and Noah. They had just turned two and I wondered if they would get to remember me. I want(ed) them to.
What about when memories are painful? Our emotional defenses look to blot out the unpleasant memories. Sometimes over-protecting us. What about those times (and people!) in our lives that brought us happiness then, but pain us for their absence now? To lose someone is sometimes to lose ones self. Unanchored.
I think that my memory is a little better now – maybe because I am paying better attention. Every day is a bit more memorable purely by being.
I apologize for this blog being a bit neglected lately – but we've been busy making a lot of memories.