How is it that some memories are so powerful, so real, that
they enter my dreams and daydreams and induce the feeling
that I am actually experiencing them once again? So real. So
`now.'
Although some memories are older than old, they haven't
tarnished nor paled. They haven't cracked nor ripped nor
frayed nor crumbled. Sometimes they seem to have a life of
their own — talking and laughing while my brother and I
climb a grassy hillside — 27 years ago! The first taste
I had of Shabbos beauty years and years ago — yet I
still feel the awe, the holiness, now when I think back on
it. When I kashered the kitchen with my mother in our
home almost three decades ago — my heart once again,
now, in the present, swells with the same pride at that
independent accomplishment.
They're there — the memories, the reminiscences, the
flashbacks. Some are pleasant, some unwelcome, some dark and
painful, some sunlit. I let them drift around me as I wait in
line at the bank or sit in the front row at my daughter's
school play while I wait for her to come on stage.
There are ones that I haven't seen for quite a while and I
have to wave away the cobwebs at the edges. Sometimes I give
a little "poof" to scatter any accumulated dust. They just
wait in my mind, my heart, like boxes stacked on shelves,
ready to be taken down and opened. There are no serial
numbers on the boxes. No tags. But they're always there, like
new.
I choose which ones to relive. I can imagine myself reaching
past the third shelf on the left and taking down the box of
memories where I was giggling with new friends when I first
went to a baalas teshuvah learning institute, or a
different box where tears of emotions surface as my youngest
son was called up to the Torah for the first time, or the
incredible happiness I felt at my oldest son's wedding,
dancing with my new daughter-in-law.
This morning my daughter, Sura, woke up attempting to stifle
a sob.
"What? What happened?" I ask.
She leans against me and tells me the dream she just awoke
from where she relived a particularly frightening explosion
near our apartment during the war. Her tears make small dark
dots on my housedress. "The thunder does sound a lot like
katyushas," I say, as we listen to the wind whipping
outside.
I hold her tightly and nestle my face into her hair. I inhale
the fragrance of shampoo.
We stand together like this for a few minutes until she feels
better, stronger. She lets go and smiles up to me with watery
eyes. I try to think quickly of a way to divert her
attention.
"Tell me," I bend slightly so that we're eye level, "Tell me
about some nice things that have happened to you."
"I really loved holding the new baby," she smiles as she's
reminded of her newest nephew, "And Ima, did I tell you?
Yesterday Morah Dina showed everyone MY chumash test
as an example of how it should be done!"
"That's terrific! Anything else?"
She holds out her arm, a silver bracelet encasing her wrist.
Her twin brother had his bar mitzva only a month ago and
while Sura helped set up and bring out salads, he was plied
with gifts until one unusually sensitive woman came over and
handed Sura a pink wrapped gift. Sura looked confused, she
said, "It's your birthday, too." I don't know which sparkled
more; Sura's countenance or the shiny silver piece of
jewelry.
"Ima, we can decide what to think, can't we? We can choose
our thoughts and what we want to remember, right?"
"I think of it as shelves of boxes; each box holding a
different memory."
"That's really neat, Ima!"
"Well, I think we've just added a few more boxes, haven't we?
For me, anyway. I now have the memory of your smile and
glowing face from right now!"
She grins and gets her school bag. I begin my morning routine
with something to think about. Today's new memories.
Yesterday's, ten years ago, when I was very small, when I was
a teenager...
There's no orderly schedule to memories. Just the
recollection, the feeling, the smile, the sadness, the eyes,
the confidence, the laughter, the ever present reality of
what was. All part of life. All part of me. And now, part of
the next generation, my daughter, as well.
