Moments Matter

Memory is imperfect. I tend to praise myself for my ability to remember as much as I do, yet even that amount is miniscule. What I forget is so much more than what I remember. What I remember comes strongly in snapshot, imperfect slivers of moments. I remember sensations of the moment, specific feelings.

I remember I-435 North. I remember the passenger seat of my brother's maroon stick shift, the moon roof and the stars above us. I remember Wednesday nights in late autumn, quite drives and windows down. I remember the chill of the wind which carries with it the change of the season and the heat on my toes to counterbalance the cold wind in my hair. Loud music and silent understanding on drives which didn't need words. I remember feeling as if I could have driven all night.

I remember the walk from my car to the door. I remember everything being green and in bloom, the wooden trellis over the sidewalk being covered with manicured ivy and flowers. I remember stopping before the doors and looking up at the windows of the hospital. I wondered if anyone saw me down here. I wondered what they saw if they looked at me. Did they wonder about my life and my grief just as I wondered about the newly empty hospice room I passed on my way to the last door on the left? I remember watching the nurses wheel out an empty bed from a newly empty room as I walked down the hallway, and I remember my heart aching for someone I did not know. Then I entered the room I was looking for and my heart ached instead for its own selfish pain.

I remember the hallways of my college. I remember pulling out the newspaper and throwing away everything but the sports section and the crossword. I remember the shoes of the people who walked through the hallway as I sat, never looking above the legs which passed me.

I remember standing in the parking lot of work, calling my best friend. I was working until 10 that night and the store was basically empty as I stood outside the doors, looking up into the clear, starry sky. The red light off the sign and the streetlight lighting the parking lot kept me from getting too lost in the sky. I remember her sending me a picture of her finger. I remember the ring and the excited screaming and giggling. I remember feeling so happy and so connected to someone as I stood alone in the empty parking lot.

Memory flickers. It is fragile and broken, yet it is also powerful. It allows you to fall back into it, it recreates feelings, it brings to life moments. Moments which we string together, moments which string us together.