My parents have both been gone a long time. My mom died at the young age of 55, when I was just a shy, naïve 13 year old. That was 46 years ago. My dad lived until 67, when I was just 33. That was 26 years ago.I was very close to both of them, but more so with my mom. I miss them every day, and still learn from them, believe it or not.
You see, I have these little piles of shards of each of them. They are various memories. Shiny bits. Sparkly bits. Fuzzy bits. I’ve sifted through them and handled them so many times, they are well worn. They are in disarray. But they are there, in my heart, in my head, in my hands. I piece them together this way and that. I try to fill in missing details, long forgotten. I’m sure I make up the rest.
It’s kind of sad that it’s been so long that this is what I have, but it is truly a wonder to have the piles at all. And they are mine. I can play with them whenever I want or need to. They comfort me. Make me smile. Make me laugh. Make me cry. Influence me. Remind me of who I am, and who they were.
So, while I’d love to have a brain full of whole stories, clear pictures, complete with dialogue filled in, I’ll be very happy to hang onto my piles of shards.