Memory Is An Abstract Art: You Remember Things As You Choose To
What do you remember?
I've always wondered how my brain works. By that, I don't mean the structure and the hypothalamus or the different lobes and what they pertain to. I mean, I wonder how it's possible for me to remember December 9, 2011, at 7:00 PM, but for the life of me, I can't remember where I was last Tuesday. I can tell you what song I head in the back of my uncles' Mustang when I was about 10, but not the equation my professor gave on Monday. I can tell you exactly where in my backyard I buried my dog, but not where I left my ID (unless it's in my lanyard in my back pocket).
See, I have a belief that you'll remember the things or people that impacted you, even if you don't acknowledge it then. I can remember bits and pieces of conversations I have had with different people over my life span, even people who I maybe only seen once, but I've yet to remember what the last words to somebody meaningful. It's weird, right? How just one second in time can impact you five, ten, even fifteen, years down the road.
I read a book for my Spanish class two years ago called 'The Five People You'll Meet in Heaven' by Mitch Albom. It is now one of my favorite books and he's one of my favorite authors. It goes over the death of the man and five different people, some of who he doesn't remember, explaining his life to him. I don't think we ever really understand why something happens. At the moment then and there you don't say, "This is bad, but it's happening for a reason". I love this whole book endlessly, but a quote I gained was this:
"Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them - a mother's approval, a father's nod - are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories and all their accomplishments sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives."
At this point in my life, I'm understanding what it means. I am the child letting go. In my parent's head, in their memories, I am sure I am still somewhere watching my favorite TV show or singing along to the song (the song I told everyone I forgot about and don't know how to dance. I lied). My stories lie on top of my parents and my grandparent and the people before them. Isn't it interesting?
It amuses me how everyone has something they remember that you don't know that could include you. Everyone truly does have a different version of you or of someone you have no idea about. See the brain, or maybe the heart, is selective. Memory itself is art, abstract, with a way to view or remember as you choose. I am not sure who or what I'll remember down the road when I am (if God permits) fifty-five. I am not sure of anything, but hopefully if life permits, my memory will remind me of things and people that matter. I'll finally understand my own story.
