On Memory

A tire swing in Mexico with laughing children who I didn't understand, but who played with me anyway.  A stuffed animal moose that I barfed upon when I was carsick. A song that I hum when I'm nervous, without even noticing that I am humming. A wisteria branch that Grandma and I wrestled each spring.   I am an amalgam of these memories, and so many more.

Some memories dance.  I am no dancer, but when I remember the excitement of company coming over, my toes tremble in my shoes. When I wake up in the morning and feel like I really was with someone who is long gone, I want to pick up my cat and swirl around the room. 

Some memories sting. My living room is filled with old letters, handwritten ones on all sorts of stationery.  I don't know what makes me tear up more: the beautiful cursive "Love, Grandma" or the countless apology letters from my troubled younger sister.  Regret is born from memories, and as much as regret makes us human, regret stings.

Most memories sit there patiently, waiting for a conversation or an experience to wake them up and invite them into the room.  Speaking makes these memories more real; it even animates the memories like water sprinkled onto sprouts in the springtime.  Memories change as they are told and retold. Sharing memories is an art like bonsai; our words and silences shape the memories and thus our self-perceptions. 

At Mesa Verde National Park, a ranger told us, years ago, that "A tale well-told becomes the truth."  I can't find that exact saying anywhere.  Maybe I made up the place where I heard the saying.  Maybe I dreamed it?  But to me, I remember sitting on a bench and wondering if I could create a truth about the cliff dwellers by believing in it.  Those were my lonely days, and twelve-year-old me sat in a ancient cliff room and imagined if there ever was a teenage girl who cried in this room. I wondered what she would think of me, what she would tell me, what she could teach me.  For a few weeks, I even wrote my diary entries to her.  To me, Suzy the Anasazi was real, more so than the kids who had hurt my feelings in the middle school lunch room.

Sometimes, my memory differs from my parents.  Did we adopt Melinda on November 29th or November 30th?  I'm sure there are papers somewhere to prove that I am right (it was the thirtieth!) but my mom's memory that it was the 29th is just as valid.  I have resolved to be grateful to the world for bringing me a little sister on both dates (along with the rest of each year!)

When I hear stories about the past, especially when they are clouded by time, distance, loss and other extreme emotions, I need to remember that details may be altered but emotional truths remain. These emotional truths become our identities and the stories we tell become part of what we leave behind.