Our memories are like a
thread that runs through our life, providing an element of continuity and
enabling us to carry the past with us as we make our way through the
years. If our lives were books,
memories would be the table of contents, directing us to a particular place and
time.
It was only after I
reached adulthood that I realized how fortunate I was to have the parents and
family that I did, and as a result, with very few exceptions, I have only good memories. Not everyone has been so fortunate, and
I wonder how people deal with the pain and sorrow of bad memories as they make
their way in life. Can they
coexist with happiness and better circumstances, or do they have to be
repressed and forgotten.
Memories can help us
understand whom we are, by showing us where we have been, revealing how the
person we are has unfolded from what we were. They enable us to see the past with the wisdom of gathered
years, often revising our impressions and allowing us to see what we may have missed
the first time around.
I cherish my memories,
holding them fast and close to me, even more as the years accumulate (something
they inevitably do). I’m aware
that the very old seem to go back into time, reliving the distant past. That gives me comfort; I look forward
to pulling up long forgotten stories.
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