2002-12-15 - 12:21 p.m.
This month�s assignment for On Display is to write about who holds your memories.
RETREATING IN TIME
Retreating in small houses is very different from retreating in large houses. I�ve been in many houses in which parents driven out of the living room simply go into the family room. We have no family room. I�ve been in many houses in which parents who go into their bedroom have a wonderful sitting area and lots of space. We have one unpadded chair stuffed in a corner and then we have the bed. The result is that retreat in our house is not luxurious. Retreating therefore sometimes means retreating in time as well as space. But I can only retreat so far.
Yesterday, while Kat was working on a presentation and Day-Hay was watching �Charlie�s Angels� on the DVD, I decided that I had to get out of the living room. (I�ll occasionally let Day-Hay watch junk but I prefer not to have to watch it with her.) Mr. Philately had the same idea and he had gotten there before me. He was sprawled across the bed while he listened to a CD. Except that it was a CD, not an album, and there was an actual bed and not just a mattress on the floor, he could have been back in law school.
My plans for the afternoon were inchoate so I abandoned them. I dropped down beside him and curled up, listening with him. After a while, we chatted. What we said seemed very important then but today I can�t remember what we said. The total, relaxed attention on each other mattered, not the content of the conversation. We used to have similar conversations back in law school. Yes, we each had things that should be done and needed to be done but that was true back then too. What mattered more were our priorities and serendipity and both were on our side. What was even nicer was that, unlike in law school, our time together was unlikely to be the calm before an argument.
I have trouble believing that we will have been married for eighteen years in just a few weeks. (Yes, thanks to you Ben Ploney, I know that our anniversary is the 30th�at least I remember right now.) We�ve been married for as long as my childhood lasted. I�ve been married to Mr. Philately for as long as I lived with my parents, sisters, and brother. When you add in the almost four years we were together as a couple before we got married, I�ve spent more time with Mr. Philately than with my original family.
Yet, as my mother pointed out in a slightly different context, the childhood years remain important beyond their number. She was speaking of the 49 years she will have been married to my father come the end of this week. Still, her point reminds me that a retreat in my small house can only be a retreat in time to a point. If my memory were ever damaged, Mr. Philately would be the box holding my most important memories of almost all of my adult life. But, large a figure as he is in my life, his role as my memory is limited.
Mr. Philately�s sprawled body across my bed can remind me of law school, of my small apartment in New Jersey, of our slightly larger apartment in Brooklyn, and of all the years in Wisconsin with our children. It can transport me to good times and warm thoughts. He can cover the last 22 years. But neither his body, his mind or his heart ultimately could return me to me if I lost my memories. My brother, looking at my reminder notes of the sequences of passwords I use at work, might be able to crack the code. Mr. Philately would not stand a chance. His memory does not cover the places and events he would need to know.
The time travel machine that is my house can take me some wonderful old places. Mr. Philately could give me back even more of them. But no matter how long I live in this house or how far I travel with my husband, his memory alone would never be enough to restore me to me. For the memory box that truly holds the secret of who and what I am resides with those who came before�my sisters, my brother, and my parents.
LAST YEAR: Adult Learners
LAST FIVE ENTRIES:
Reconnecting
Reducing Swelling
Nobility
Full Out
Spoiled Wives
previous - next
|
Copyright 2006 by Ellen |
