A Thought About Memory

How little we remember of things.  I look at the kids, the baby at eight months sleeping in Kris’ arms as she sits next to me on the couch, Sofia at three, David at five, and think, what tiny scraps they will have of these moments, and I pity (is this the right word?) them – but pity us more.  They will not remember how much and fiercely we loved them.  A thousand gentle moments, patient smiles, tender hugs.  But then again, why should I pity them or us – when my memory will serve me no better a year, a month from now, than theirs will in twenty or thirty years.  I have no more memory of the past than they do – scattered images and sensations. My only real advantage is a memory of words about the past.  I know stories and substitute those for places, know names and substitute those for faces.  When I dream of heaven, when I imagine God, the fondest thing I conceive of requesting from Him is memory – true memory.  When I have stepped out of the stream of time, my consciousness is no longer linear, will I finally know all the things that were and are in my life as they have been and continue to be?  I want to remember, and imagine that if I could remember perfectly – as perfectly as God imagines Himself – then all the things that were are and will be.

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