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Memories April 21, 2011

Posted by sarahsfate in My Own Personal Trials, PostADay2011.
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There are patches of my life that I recall in vivid detail, some I am pretty sure I imagined, others that swim in a murky haze, and still others I have blocked out completely. When my family and I convene we discuss days of old and there are times when I exclaim “Oh yeah! I completely forgot about that!” and there are times when I frown and say “Yeah, I do not remember that at all.” It is interesting, to me, the things our minds hang onto versus those little streams our minds let slip away.

I remember playing in a sandbox with three of my seven sisters — it is where I learned the art of team work. We built sand mounds with tunnels, digging into the sand with our fingers until our entire small arms were buried. I remember how cold the tips of my sister’s fingers were when our hands met in the middle as we dug. I remember the grit of sand clogging my fingernails and my sister’s laughing eyes as we glanced at each other over the sand mound.

But I could not tell you the layout of our yard at that same age.

I remember completing high school — mostly because I eventually no longer had to go. I remember how much I struggled and pushed myself that final year because I absolutely had to graduate before my daughter was born. But I do not know if I walked outside and looked back at the building on that final day or if I ran — grateful to be done. Though I spent years working towards graduation — indeed my whole life up to that point — I cannot remember the grande finale.

I remember my sister’s wedding. I do not recall the design of her dress or whether she and the groom had personalized vows. What I remember is my four-year old daughter appearing with blue candy all over her face, hands, and dress. I remember asking her what happened and she burst into tears. Into tears the same color as the blue candy she was covered in. And when I asked why she was crying blue tears she told me it was because her eyes were blue.

I write in my journal every day. It’s therapeutic. It provides assurance that when the day comes that I remember no more of any of the things that made me laugh and cry during my life, I will be able to reach for a book. And remember.

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