Open When You Need to Remember

Photo Credit: Artist Gerard ter Borch, 1655

My dad was not to be convinced that a memoir was necessary to document his life. However, none of us with the exception of my late brother had a memory that could recount with the accuracy it required.

His administrative assistant who had been by his side life for almost fifty years would have gladly written it from his dictating it to her. Oh, how his wife tried to coerce him, yet his response was always the same.

No one would really be that interested.

Our family was because now so many of the memories have gone with him, no matter how diligently we tried to commit them to our memory banks.

Because of this I decided to begin writing letters to our daughter, Sarah. A collection of ongoing vignettes, moments lived from my observatory deck.

A mother’s point of view.

This is proving to be so deeply healing and moving for me to engage within. Maintaining an easy cadence, keeping it simple, writing in more of a stream of consciousness mode. Maintaining a loose semblance of chronological order, featherweight, airy.

Too often what is imprinted are all the heavy, disastrous moments. The ones we might be wishing we could have a do over for with. Even if amends were made, still they exist. Unable to squeeze the genie back into the bottle.

This letter writing practice feels as if it creating new neural pathways. Helping me to remember and perhaps activate a memory too for my daughter?

I sense this is what is felt around loss. Most especially with our parents, our first memory keepers. I miss my first note takers, observers, and the stories rounding the dinner table for decades, often chased with gales of boisterous laughter.

My mentor suggests writing letters often. To openly express what I am feeling, and to try to locate words if possible. Some letters may be sent, others shredded, burned, only for my eyes. Many in bereavement write to their beloveds becoming a two way writing experience. Elizabeth Gilbert, teaches in her Substack, Letters From Love, downloading what unconditional love is revealing to us, and writing it down. A voice who adores, uplifts, and often spices things up with a wicked sense of humor.

What fascinates me is how differently we perceive and recall. A mother’s view, not the same as a child’s. I had a front row seat to this as one of my dearest high school friends and I were sharing with my mom what we were really up to when she was envisioning something else.

Mom made it perfectly clear that she didn’t desire us creating a confessional with her to assuage our guilt. She was more than delighted to continue to dwell within her imagination.

My letters I’m writing require no response. Their purpose is to become a memory jogger. Sharing a bit of family history which may become easily forgotten in years to come. Most especially when the narrators are no longer earth side to remind us just one more time.

The receiver of my letters, daughter Sarah

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.”

~Anne Lamott

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