While continuing to stitch on Iowa, I am thinking about memories.
About brushing away cobwebs from them.
About that crystal moment when one comes rushing back, one that you hadn't thought about in years, but appears bright as day, full of old feelings.
I've always had a good memory, especially for stories. My college roommate used to say I remembered her life better than she did, and I'm often filling K in on his family history.
And there was the day that my teenage self needed to know there was a light at the end of the tunnel and put up two pieces of paper on the bedroom door: One a countdown of how many days until I would move out (683 at the start. I crossed one off each day). The other was titled "If I Have Children I Will...". At the top of the list was "Remember that children remember."
I've clung to memories, holding on to them for comfort, entertainment, validation, evidence, etc. But they seem to be slipping away, rapidly. I've heard it's due to the up-coming menopause. I don't mind, mostly (except when I'm in the basement and don't remember why). And this loss may be my only hope for finding that peaceful middle ground of letting go and calm.
