Monday, January 30, 2017

Memories lost

Sunset through clouds
There is this thing that happens in a marriage. Any serious relationship really. You divvy stuff up.  Who cleans what. Who drops the kids off and who picks up. Amy stopped cooking for herself. I did that. I stopped paying attention to birthdays. Parents, kids, nieces and nephews. I didn’t need to because Amy did. She’d hand me a birthday card to sign and off it went. It may not have been perfectly egalitarian, but it worked for us.

And then she died. All those birth dates. And other things. Trips we took together. Dates we went on. I have memories of all—I think all of them—but stuff is missing here and there. This past Thanksgiving as a family we decided to go to a restaurant for dinner. It was a good choice. They had an outdoor grill with smoked oysters on the half-shell. I introduced my older son, now 14, to the delight of oysters, a rare treat for me now. I started to tell him about the first time I had raw oysters—with his mother. I like sharing happy stories of their mother when I can. I told him, it was a weekend getaway 17 years ago to Ocean City, Maryland. It was winter and we had just started dating. Or was it the year after that? In Rehoboth? I couldn’t remember. It’s a small detail but I really wish I knew. In telling the story to my son he now knows that happened in 1999 in Ocean City. I'm pretty sure about it. Seven years ago I would have asked Amy to confirm the details of this minor family history footnote but I didn’t need to then and I can’t now.

It’s a small thing. But it gnaws a little. I wish I had written more things down. Journaled consistently. Something.


  1. When we loose someone in life who is so near and dear to us, the only thing which remains with us is their memories. We can cherish their memories to remember the good times we have spend together.