Are memories selective? Do we pick which ones we want to keep, and which ones we want to forget? Is it possible to heal past memories or see them in a new light?
Why is it that two people can experience the same thing, at the same time, and yet have a different recollection about the moment? Why is it that some memories are crystal clear, and others faded and fringed?
Memories have a way of shaping us, and they can frame our personalities.
Our memories are a source of conversation, they come up, over and over as if needing air. There are memories buried underneath other memories, layers upon layers, like photos stacked in a box waiting to be sorted.
Yesterday, when I spoke to my Father, he said regarding the post about his birthday, "I wasn't that good of a Father. I could have been better." I said I thought he was the best Father for me, and that I didn't agree with him. I could almost see his sideway smile and hear his heart sigh. He said, "If you remember me like that then so be it, and I am glad."
As I was talking with my Father, a memory came to my mind of a conversation I had 30 years ago with my Grandmother about my Father's birth. The memory was crystal clear as if my Grandmother was there whispering in my ear and nudging me to tell him. Have you ever felt like that? Where a memory comes to you as if it is pushed to the surface for a reason?
As I shared the memory with my Father, I realized that my Dad had never heard the story about his birth. My Grandmother was at home and alone when she went into labor. She had called the doctor, and he was on his way. But she feared he wouldn't make it on time. My Grandmother squatted, holding on to the bedpost for support. She said it was the most difficult labor out of all the seven she had experienced. The doctor arrived just in time to catch my Dad who weighed over 12 pounds.
"….and she named you George, after the Doctor, who came just in time," I said to my Dad.
"What? I was named after the Doctor? I thought I was named after George Washington? My brother Daniel, was named after Daniel Boone! So I assumed I was named after the first president of America." He laughed, "You mean to tell me, on my eightieth birthday, that I was named George, because of the doctor!? Well, all be darn. Burst my bubble"
Memories are there to show us who we are and where we have come from.
photos: 19th century, French antique picture frames, at the flea market. More often than not when you find these type of picture frames, they are chipped at the corner. Are any memories perfectly intact?
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