memory

I have an interesting relationship to memory. I can remember thousands of song lyrics, but can’t remember the name of my first grade teacher. I can remember moments of deep embarrassment or shame, but I can’t remember joyful vacations when I was a child. I can remember exactly where difficult conversations were had and what was said, but I can’t remember that my husband once told me that pumpkin pie ice cream was his favorite (until last week when he reminded me). My little sister remembers our childhood for me when I need to be reminded. She doesn’t have this problem with memory.

I have left home so many times to find a new home that I just end up blocking out a lot of what came before to make what’s coming next manageable. And the same was true last year when we left our beautiful little Portland home for this overwhelming farmhouse and land. When we moved out, I walked the rooms carefully trying to memorize every detail and recall every single day of life there. We rented it for 6 months before selling it, so when it came time to close the sale, I tearfully walked the rooms again, quietly thanking the space for being what it was to us, and again trying to remember every detail for later. I don’t want to forget, despite my excellence at it.

Last week my very first sweet peas of the season threw a couple of little short stems to test their legs. As I clipped them off and buried my nose in them, my eyes involuntarily filled with tears. I was home again. In the cool breeze of the dining room, setting sweet peas up on my favorite windowsill. A deep sense of contentment and purpose settled in my chest. And I realized that maybe I don’t have to worry about forgetting how it all looked. My eyes aren’t holding the memories. The sweet peas have them for me. Like the mock orange intentionally planted just outside our back door holds the memories of Queen Anne for me. It seems that every June I’ll be able to go home again because of flowers.

I wonder what will bear the memories for Springvale…