Memory
It’s January. A new year and a new cycle of experiences, the fodder of which memories are made.
Memory is an interesting connector between present and past. I watch a line of brown pelicans skim just above the water and, like magic, rise up over a breaking wave, wings beating in time, a single mind guiding the flock. Chuck E is standing beside me under a warm sun explaining the aerodynamics of their ability to fly so close to the water and avoid getting splashed by the cresting waves.
I drive to Nepenthe’s for morning coffee and then on to the waterfall. Elizabeth is with me sharing the awesome beauty of the Big Sur coast. I wander through the shops, knowing how happily she looks at everything, every new discovery.
I sit in my car at the bay on a Saturday afternoon. Maria is with me sharing a visit and a lunch of Costco Polish hot dogs and iced tea.
I watch The Music Man. My grandson William is snuggled beside me in my big chair as we sing along with all of the songs, not a word or note missed by either of us.
I make a “long drive” south to Ragged Point, or north to Half Moon Bay, along the coast or wandering through the mountains. Mama is with me. Sometimes we silently enjoy the scenery, sometimes sharing our thoughts and feelings, our joys and fears, our gains and losses.
I see my Christmas tree piled high (or not so piled high) with wrapped presents, or sit down to a formal Thanksgiving Day dinner with china and crystal (or a solitary feast with my good dishes and crystal on a tray), and whole generations of family are there with me. Grandma Peaches, face flushed, asking for more “gramma’s gravy” (brandy sauce) for her soggy slice of fruit cake. Grampa with the newest baby on his lap, face smeared with mashed potatoes. Dozens of stockings hung across the fireplace mantle reflecting the sleeping bags lined up on the floor, and all of the cousins are there!
I walk the path along Pacific Grove, happy to get a hot cappuccino. Cousin Eric is there and I’m asking, “Why do all the men in our family die of heart attacks?” and he answers, “The women they marry?”
I sit as we light our candles for the coming year, sharing this ceremony with people I love and serve and who make my life rich, and I’m surrounded by the presence of everyone with whom I have shared this ceremony over the past fifty-five years.
No wonder I’m seldom, if ever, lonely. Those people I love are with me every day, connected to my daily activities. I am, indeed, blessed.
Charlotte
Edited by Monique Huenergardt of MoReadsYou.com