For me it’s this. A snatch of memory, a taste, a whiff, an idea that propels me through my days. Soothing me. Smoothing my way.
I miss everyone so. Absurdly, ridiculously, I sometimes draw no distinction between those who’ve passed away and those who’ve simply left the room. The yearning, the loss can feel equally raw, cavernous. I miss them.
How could it be otherwise?
So I tell myself their stories. They are, as all of us are, the heroes of their own tales. These are not swashbucklers or breast thumping heroics. Rather they tell the quiet narratives of the small kindnesses that make up our everyday lives. The little stories that knit us all through life.
And for me then all those I miss are with me once again, vibrant and warm.
As the curator of the tales, the molder of memories, I choose to celebrate their good.
For why else?
Memory connects. It lives.