Dear reader,
I’m not usually forgetful. I never lose my water bottle, and I’ve managed to make it through this year without leaving my things behind in my classes. But outside of tangible items, I forget things all the time: meetings, due dates, names, and even what I did last year.
It’s natural, to a certain extent. Memory is historically inaccurate. But I want to remember the names of my elementary school teachers and the family vacation we took to Australia in second grade. I want to remember everything as vividly as I can.
I know it’s unrealistic. Memory is a complicated thing — still, I have to try, because I never know what I’m going to forget. Last week, I couldn’t recall the name of my seventh grade teacher, and the week before, the names of old teammates slipped my mind. It scares me for more than one reason.
My nonni suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t remember visiting her often as a child, mainly because she lived on the East Coast. Last year, during a trip to Boston, my mom called her up. “I’m in Boston,” she said. “Can I come visit?”
My nonni laughed, saying, “Boston? I live in San Diego now!”
Her children moved her across the country into a retirement home for people with memory loss after her Alzheimer’s got worse. But I try to look on the bright side. At least she still recognizes us. Every time I visit, she greets me with a hug and marvels at how much I’ve grown.
My mom and I visited her at the end of last summer. During lunch, she would look at me from across the table every couple of minutes and ask what grade I was in. “Senior year? Wow. Are you applying to colleges now?” I gave her a slightly different answer every time. She wouldn’t remember this conversation, but I will. I was forcing myself to imprint every detail into my memory as we talked. I want to pin things down so that one day I can look back and know exactly how I felt at a particular time.
It was only once we dropped her off and said goodbye that it hit me — she wouldn’t remember that we had visited at all. The realization nearly brought me to tears, because if she won’t remember, then what was the point?
But I remind myself that the love was still there, no matter who kept a record of it. I won’t let it disappear into my memory. I am recording it in all the ways I can: through writing, photos, or memories. My desire to document everything spills over to other parts of my life.
Take this column, for example. Why do I write? I enjoy it, of course, but I’m also driven by the need to put everything on paper and ink. I want to pin things down so that one day I can look back and know exactly how I felt at a particular time.
So maybe I write to fulfill my desire to be remembered, to leave something tangible behind. It might sound a bit trivial, given that I know these newspapers aren’t going to stay around for longer than a month. But maybe I write to create a record just for myself.
Here are some things I want to remember: car karaoke, 3-mile cooldowns and Peet’s runs. Seeing the sun rise and set on the same day. Last-minute Safeway runs with my sister. Dyeing matching streaks in our hair. Watching my nonni turn around to tell the family behind us that their son was just adorable.
For the record, I was here.
Holding onto the memories,
Abby
