a trick of memory

this is probably it. tricks of memory have been my only muse. the you in everything i’ve written is this. and i don't mean tricks in any malicious sense. i mean it more like a magic act- like a well kept secret. half the fun is in figuring out how, the other half in suspending disbelief. in believing.

long ago i wrote that happiness was a trick of memory. partly because i grew up skeptical of happiness, fascinated by the means, the lengths we go through to be happy. partly because i wanted to be happy. to believe it.

in eugene, sufjan stevens loses himself in the sleeves where his mother used to hide her cigarettes. of all the grieving memories from an album he wrote after her death, it was this line that always broke me- the parts of our self we lose in our memories. what does memory hide up its sleeve? when is the final act?

over the last few years, my grandmother has lost plenty up those sleeves. everyday, she wakes up to sit in the living room, right in front of the open door, looking out at the driveway, and the road in front of the house, studying the passerbys. like she's also forgotten what she's waiting for. when i sit with her, memories come tumbling out of her- a passing remark my aunt made ten years ago, a broken wall in the backyard that the neighbour’s tree fell over (which she was passive aggressively waiting for them to fix lest they assume we don't have any boundaries with them), my grandfather's worst jokes, or something sweet about my mother, her belatedly accepted daughter-in-law. but she wouldn't remember what she had for breakfast, as the men in the house were usually pleased to prove. but i don’t think that's proof of anything significant. because the truth is, she remembers everything she can care to.

and that's because she hasn't actually forgotten what she's waiting for, sitting there everyday. and when i sit beside her, she knows to tell the stories that she hopes will survive her.

so much of loving is remembering. when we say making memories what we really mean is bearing witness. to carry each other in words, stories, and feelings. “oh, this made me think of you”, “remember that time-”, “i’ll never forget this moment”, etc.

briefly, we promise to survive time.

and of course that's also terrifying. how do we learn to trust our memory? how do we trust each other’s memories? ghosts of forgotten things are tired hauntings, faintly knocking at our doors while we're fast asleep.

but while we're here, in a creator’s image, what else is there to make?