Memory: an image or impression of one that is remembered – Merriam Webster
I have spent the last week remembering. Ten years; a long time, but amazing how memories live on. Fresh and crisp, like they were just last week. Time dulls so many seconds, but some minutes last forever…
I can creep into some memories and feel the searing scars imprinted in frantic panic; screams, garbled words, indecision that didn’t really matter in the long run anyway. As awful as they were, they are a part of my fabric and stay tucked in my memory as close as any other. Nicer moments are the simple, quiet gifts of last days that I brush the feelings of—a swing hung, a friend’s visit, and a last ride in the old Olds with family.
Other memories speak of what we lived for and were denied in last months—the battles with food. You gave up in last days and returned to what we knew and loved. No more protein shakes, vegan meals, and holistic pills to work magic. Those magic elixirs were a crutch to clutch onto when hope begged for hope. As the light faded, so too did the future. We returned to what brought us together in the first place and I remember our last meals; Steak & seafood dinner with the in-laws—our last nice supper. Panzarotti—Sunday comfort food when there was no comfort left in the world. Curry—my mother’s gift to us, too harried to put any thought into sustaining a normal routine and world.
Curry was Brad’s last meal. My last meal with him. His last conscious moments before time pushed him into memory. Food had become an enforced regime, but I remember those dinners from the end of August 2007; the 25th, 26th, 27th. Any nutrients in those meals slipped away in the stress of the time period, but memories of them stay with me. A funny thing memory is.
The interesting thing about memories is that you get to pull them out and look at them whenever you want. They make me sad, but I would be lost without them and fiercely protect the space I hold for them. It has been ten years since my husband died, but I can breathe him into existence for my children to look at ten years later. That is a gift. Not the same, but all I have to offer my girls. I give them stories and pictures of a time that formed them and molded their world, but ultimately left them without any memories of their own to reflect back on.
And we all have those memories that sustain us. Protect yours.