Cherishing Memories Through Writing

Yellow roses in a cream-colored Lenox vase grace my kitchen table. Thirty-seven years ago, John brought me a dozen yellow roses when our younger son, Daniel, was born. He entered my hospital room wearing turquoise-tinted aviator sunglasses. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said, handing me the flowers.

The cool hospital room, with its fluorescent lights and white walls, is brightened by his smile. The baby is napping in the nursery until they bring him in swaddled in a soft cotton blanket, a little white cap on his head. The nurse hands him to me. John takes off his sunglasses, stands up, and comes over to us. I hold the baby out to him. I can’t remember what he said to the baby. It’s not like now I can say all the things I wanted to say but never did, even if I could remember what they are, because I can’t.

Memory is strange, how it comes and goes. It shifts and takes different shapes and meanings. We savor the fleeting beauty of those moments that linger on the journey of who we are and will always be.

Today, I remember the birthday and anniversary cards he wrote me in his beautiful, flowing handwriting. I’ve saved them, unable to toss them out. I’ve stored them in a plastic bag —one of those squarish plastic bags that your sheets come in—thrown on the floor at the back of my closet. I unzip the bag. Why am I doing this, this foolish walk down memory lane of a life long gone? And there it is. The notebook.

On my 43rd birthday, he made me a notebook filled with pictures of things I love — a sunset over the ocean, and the two of us together in bed with our cocker spaniel Brandy. And corny poetry. Susan. Today is my special day because God sent you my way. And in your journey, you brought along your loving song. You sing it every day. As through thick and thin, you make your way. Your song is filled with love and caring, and I am lucky enough to be the one who is sharing.

Now I understand why I loved him and why he loved me. I don’t remember the last time someone said I had brought along a loving song. Memories, they say, are often based on their emotional impact and perceived importance.

Writing is my passionate lover now. No remarriages, no new relationships. Only this. Writing it down and sharing it with you.

***

This past weekend, it was heartening to see eleven women attend our Women’s Writing Circle. The room at the library was small and cramped, barely accommodating us, but I loved it. What an amazing turnout for a June morning with new faces, too! Thanks to the library newsletter, they had heard about us. The writing and the memories. So diverse, so interesting, so many voices. Over the years, the secrets revealed…the conversations vague and sometimes difficult to write…but always the desire to cleanse, to heal, and to understand the memories before it’s too late.

Writing exacts its demands, even when we think we have reached the point of no return. It captures and distills memories, laden with joy and with grief. And for me, of the man who walked into the room with the turquoise sunglasses and an armful of yellow roses.

Are there memories that linger? How do you begin to write them?

Author’s Note: Today would have been our 48th wedding anniversary. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”