I sometimes wonder what my children will remember when they get old, like me. Because 35 is just so, so ancient. You know, compared to 34. Or 30. It's kind of a shock, actually, but I'm off track.
I used to think I would remember so many things. The color of my favorite dress, perhaps. The deserty smell of Tucson (not to be confused with the desserty smell of Thanksgiving pie). The names of my very best (for the moment) friends. The little moments of childhood that seemed so large and important.
But I don't remember much of it at all. Little glimpses of the past, so tiny they often feel unreal. In fact, I don't really even remember the early days of motherhood - Josh's first laugh, for example. So important at the time, and now lost in the dusty folds of memory. I remember moments, tiny little moments, and not much else. I remember feelings, but mostly those feelings are overtaken by the feelings of today. Regret for my actions. Wonder. Amusement. Disappointment. They wash out all the colors of the memory and leave a hazy pit in my stomach instead.
That seems like a strange way to put it, but I don't know how else to describe it.
There was a time when I thought I would remember everything. But somewhere along the line I stopped paying so much attention. The present always shoves its way in, intruding on the past and pushing it away.
And I bet she won't remember any of it. But I hope, like me, she remembers she was happy.