Momentous

The more we stop to think about our past, the more vulnerable we are to changing our memory of it. We replay them in our minds over and over again, changing them ever slightly each time, while alternating what we saw, with how it smelled, or what sounds were made, or how we felt. I remember it like it was yesterday, it was a bit chilly outside, but the sun was out. Or was it? Maybe it rained. It must have rained that day as I was feeling rather depressed. Yes. It was raining that day. And so it goes. 

   Over time these tiny variations start to have a bigger impact on how we recall the past. We’ll have spent the coming days, weeks, months, and years playing them out in a loop, thinning out the details each time they come around. Compact and narrow, as visions or feelings, so we have an easier time tucking them away in our head. I remember the look on her face. I remember the sadness inside. The sky was gray. 

David looked down as a teardrop fell from his eye and landed silently on the minute hand of his father’s watch. He rubbed the face of it, brushing away the tear as it fell, becoming forever lost with the rain. He looked up to see his father’s friend Stan, who had just handed him the watch. He put his hand on his shoulder before pulling him into his chest and holding him there until David could finally let it all out. 

David lifted his head and looked up to the farmhouse as the medical examiner finally stepped out from inside. He wiped his forehead with a black handkerchief, and tapped random spots of sweat on the back of his neck, before tucking it away in his back left pocket. He looked down to a red-eyed David in the driveway, and slowly made his way down from the porch. 

“You must be David,” the examiner spoke with a quarter smile. David nodded his head. “I’m sorry about your father. Looks like it was a heart attack. We may have to run some tests to be certain, but this seems to be the case as far as I can tell,” he spoke rather matter of factly. 

They stood there for a moment in silence, when Jane finally made her way out of the house. Behind her followed two police officers. David watched as they both looked down at his sister, mumbled a few words and jotted down a few notes before making their way down to their patrol car. Jane glanced back at her brother, her shoulders slumped low, and with eyes that spoke, “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” 

A few days passed, and I soon found myself face to face with the deceased corpse of what was once my father. In my left hand I carried the white clay figure of the king, from the chess set I used to play with him years ago. I stepped towards his casket, and layed the piece on his chest, right above his heart. “Checkmate,” I whispered to myself. The piece came from the same set from which the queen had gone missing for as long as I can remember. I would find out some time later that it was my father who had taken it. He had buried it with his mother, my grandmother, years before. Sometimes the unspoken past eventually finds its voice as we begin to uncover the truth of it all. 

I never liked funerals. I always felt that they only dragged out the heartache and the misery that's brought out by them. We’ve already mourned. We mourned together. But let’s mourn some more. The day we buried our fathers body, I came to understand the many lives that he touched during his time. People who I had never met before told their stories. The way that they remembered him. Or the way they forced themselves to remember him. Or maybe just the way they wanted me to remember him. 

The progression made its way into the graveyard and stopped in front of a freshly dug patch of earth. Everyone stepped out and circled around the six foot hole in the ground. His five children and with the help of his brothers carried the coffin to his final resting place. Along with our uncles, David, Jane, Benny, Bryan, and myself, held onto the handles. With all of us holding on, it was light, but the mental weight of this particular state of affairs was oh so much heavier. 

We lowered him into the ground. We said our prayers and our final words. And that was it. He was gone. Only we remained. The strangest thing is how much more noticeable the absence of someone is compared to when they were around. It's hard to fathom why it is that we spend so much more time with the things that are gone from our lives, than those that remain. 

The day before we put our father into the earth, all of the siblings came over to the house. We paced around the rooms and hallways, together, but very much in our own heads. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. Our mother, on the other hand, knew quite well that keeping busy was the best way to deal with these kinds of circumstances. And that’s just what she did. 

For as long as I can remember, she had kept in her possession, a cedar chest. Inside of this cedar chest was where she had kept all the pictures and letters, and memories of her children, our father, and everything else of the last nearly fifty years of her life. Right there on the living room floor, she had spread out all of it, as she slowly and methodically began to piece together a collage that represented the life of our father. The radio played as she went to work. 

I stood over her, and watched. She brought out a picture of him in his firefighter uniform, his first day on the job. She looked at it longingly, recalling whichever pain or pleasurable memories that it evoked, before placing it in a pile. She lifted up an old love letter. She read it, and paused, before placing it in a different pile. She continued, bringing out each and every photo, note, article of clothing, or any other piece of memorabilia, letting the recollections make their way through her, out, and into a pile. 

After some time she paused. She was holding up a picture of them on their wedding day. “You asshole.” I heard her say. “You left me alone with all these kids.” She cursed. Just then Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s song of domestic bliss, ‘Our House,’ came on the speaker. Since the day we heard the news, I had not seen our mother cry. For the sake of all of us, she held it in. She would convince herself that she had to be strong, strong for us, and tried her damndest to not let her emotions get in the way of that. Until now. 

She broke down. Everything came, and all at once. All of the last thirty years surged through her body like a rushing river, over and out, it came. All of the pain. The pain of labor, the fights, the challenges, the lost dreams, with every tear that dropped. All of the joy. The joy of the memories they had made, the laughter, the silly mistakes, and watching their children grow.  

She hung her head in despair, as evidence of a whole life gone, spread over the floor in front of her. As her cry grew more audible, all of her children began to trickle in. I placed my left arm around her, letting her head rest on my shoulder. Followed by Bryan, who did the same on her other side. Benny leaned in front of her, putting both his arms around her stomach. Then finally came Jane and David, taking what little space was left, as we all wrapped our arms around each other in a gentle and warm embrace.  

***

My mother once told me that the true meaning of life was simple. It’s about making memories. She wasn’t wrong. They are all that we have, and it really is up to us what value that we give to them. We decide how they will influence us and what kind of people we will become as a result. 

We always have the chance to change our perspective, to find a new way of looking at the world, and to make sense of everything that happens to us. We find that no matter how much pain or pleasure that life deals out, there is always a way to grow from it. There will always be time that is lost, and time to make up for it. 

We dream big about the days to come, yet we dread the inevitable. We find calm in the mundane, and chaos in the extraordinary. Day in and day out, we find for ourselves the meaning in the struggle. 

As we journey through the landscape of our lives, we soon discover that the road that leads us is long and unpaved. With each passing memory, we lay our bricks. With each brick, we take our steps forward. With each momentous occasion, we draw out our path, that becomes the backdrop to the story of our lives.