Memories

Do you remember your 1st grade teacher – her name? How about your best friend in eighth grade? How about that class trip to Washington D.C.? What sites did you see? Can you remember the antics your classmates are talking and laughing about when you get together for a reunion? Did we really have a geometry teacher who reclined on the window ledge each class? What was the name of that professor who taught calculus in college by writing with one hand and erasing with the other – almost at the same time! There are some who can remember the tiniest details about events – what they were wearing, what was served for dinner, how many people were there. And names! The entire alto section of the choir, the cast and crew of the show, every single concert they’ve every been to. Not me.

Its not that I don’t want to remember (especially names – my husband’s specialty), my brain just doesn’t function that way. I remember faces – no problem!  And I just hate it when someone says, “You don’t remember me do you? “It’s so rude. I want to scream – “your face, but not your name.” But then I’d be rude too. So, instead, I’ve taken to just saying – “Nope, sorry, I don’t. Remind me.”

I’m visual. I remember books that I’ve read, plays that I’ve seen, and art exhibits I’ve attended. My memories are more like photographs – a point in time. Like watching my mother-in-law, son and grandchildren walking home from the Memorial Day parade. She with her walker, my son with the stroller. (I actually did take a photo of that moment.) This time of year, I remember my Dad dressing up as Santa and talking to his grandchildren who were in awe.

 My memories are often of faces – the beauty of our daughters-in-law as they came down the aisle and the beaming smiles on our boys. The panic and fright on my sister’s face when they told her the cancer was back and then, when it really wasn’t – relief and anger. Red cheeks and noses from sitting at December Giants games at the Meadowlands. My Mom’s face when she looked up from the audience when I received an award.

It used to bother me when people would talk about an event and I’d only have a vague recollection of it. Why couldn’t I remember it too? Was there a reason I perhaps blocked it from my memory? Was I not paying attention? I’ve since realized that it’s okay not to remember every tiny detail. I remember what it felt like. What it looked like. And that’s enough. More than enough.