Living

Rumbling thoughts. Trying to remember so that I don't forget.

Horribly sentimental, remembering my babies in the house. Round the table, the center of this house, talking about Howard Blackburn and what makes a hero.

Colored lights on the tree. Elaborate squirrel traps. Butter on steak.

Babies crawling across the floor give way to running children, through the yard, past peonies in full bloom.

Saint Francis in the garden says a prayer for us all.

Bless this family. Bless these people.

It is the people who make the memory.

We forget, sometimes, what we don't want to remember. Sometimes we forget what we want to remember.

But we try to hold on in some small way.

I remember fires in the fireplace and smokey living room, sitting in the sun, tea and coffee. Stone steps.

Halloween and masks and the piano. Knitting in the sitting room, knitting in the living room. Knitting hats. Mittens.

Her hands. His laugh. Our laughter.

Braided rug, in our house now.

Pictures and pictures. Listening with Aidan, assignment for school to retell a story that has been passed down from generation to generation.

The story of Nena with her sister and her German mother in Washington DC in the park and being asked not to speak German. Nena's memory. Nanny's memory and now Aidan's memory, recorded in her Book of Me.

The memories continue as I think. Some flutter in front of me and are lovely and disappear as quickly as I have remembered them. Some linger, like stringed instruments.

There is beauty and sadness in memories. There is something ghostly that comes from knowing that this is my memory and only my memory.

Others have different memories. We try to remember what we want.

Living becomes mixed up with dying.