Memories are wisps of loved ones floating through our souls, keeping them alive when they are no longer a part of this world. A fire within us slowly dies for quite some time. However, with memories, the fire may not glow so brightly, but there is still a flickering flame ablaze.

They are as natural as breathing, swelling with our chest’s rise and fall. Memories are like waves of the ocean that gather until they crash together again on the shoreline. They don’t dissipate with time or separation, not even in death. They are concrete images that prove a relationship existed, just as the salt water will always soak the sand in a reminder of its presence.

An avid seashell collector searches for a multitude of shells in all shapes, colors and sizes. Just as they are the ocean’s cresting waves, memories are also the shells that the ocean leaves behind. You simply search for them within the various shells, some beautiful and whole, while others are cracked and rough. They always say, too, that if you press a shell to your ear you can hear the ocean. If you press your ear to a memory, you can hear your departed loved ones.

I lost someone, who also lost their memory. My great grandma, the sweetest and orneriest woman I knew, passed away from Alzheimer’s disease over a year ago. She didn’t know who I was. As she began to not recognize me, I also began to not recognize her. However, the memories I had defined her, not the disease.

It was my feet running up the hot asphalt to reach her house, knocking our secret knock so she knew it was me. It was Sanford and Sons blasting on her little television and a vanilla frosty from Wendy’s. It was her hair obsession and Christmas sweaters in the summertime. It was her outrageous laughter that made life seem easy to understand at that exact moment. It was these memories that defined my great-grandma and not the last few memories I have of her life.

Alzheimer’s, unfortunately, changed my great grandma. She was still herself sometimes, but in others, she couldn’t possibly be without her memory. Memory is a necessity to life. Not only does it keep you with an understanding of the present, but it gives you access to the past. We simply cannot control the ocean, but we can get in it and go swimming once more. Memories can heal, if you let them. They can plaster a smile on your face when you remember just how lucky you were to have an experience that good.

For all the people I’ve lost, not just who I’ve lost in these past couple of years, I cherish the memories I keep of them. For all the people I thankfully still have in my life, memory is my hope. For after sorrow, we can open our floodgate of memories to draw back the dark curtains and release light back into our lives.