Are our memories from infanthood and childhood our own, or merely reflections of stories retold to us by our parents in later years? This question was brought to my attention in conversation with a coworker and friend as we wiped counters and organized coffee cups. Some memories are sharp as a vision, containing exact colors, hairstyles, and aromas; the events hurry into the stream of conscious like a parade of fumbling children scurrying onstage to perform. Each character says their part, in the traditional artificially-dramatized way, and the feelings of softness, horror, contentment, or whatever resulted in that moment return to us. It’s amazing that we crave so much more than we have, yet if you think of thin-sliced Italian pizza with juicy tomato slices, crisped basil leaves, and gooey mozzarella, the crust flaky and toasted, the taste is still there, even if it’s been gone for years. A placid memory of a stuffed cat being placed into our arms as a young child still brings comfort, and satisfaction, even if the cat lies buried in the attic and our affections turned elsewhere in present.
Other memories are buried, and we must wade through the fog of deduction to reach them. “Was Harrison there? Or was it just you and I? Oh yeah, we were in Tennessee, not North Carolina. I remember now.” Locked in a mysteriously secretive corner of our minds, I wonder if these are the memories that return in dreams, déjà vu, or feelings that have no trace of origin. We aren’t aware of them, yet they are part of us. They are undeniably glued to the version of ourselves we are now.
Some of my clearest memories are of dancing, my heart soaring with laughter and delight, singing, banging on pots and pans, and searching for worms in the earthier section of the garden, fingers gritty and nails clogged. My parents would lay out the largest couch cushions as bases on the floor, and my brother and I had to hop bravely from base to base, never touching the fuzzy carpet. Melodies of U2’s “Elevation,” and Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” prompted our jump times. We leapt, we flew, we knew nothing more or less than the moment’s bliss.
My mom loved to sing; she had the self-proclaimed voice of the Little Mermaid. She tells me that she used to cradle us in her arms before bed, gazing down into our sleep-drunken eyes, singing Donna Lewis’ soft words of “I love you, always forever,” rocking us until a deep rest carried us home. “I love you, always forever, near and far, we’ll be together. Everywhere, I will be with you, every day, I go before you.” Though I don’t remember the sensations of being held, I can feel this moment within me as if I recall it exactly. I see her kind eyes, I sense her passionate care. I am safe.
When I awoke from disturbing dreams, she was beside me, singing in a whisper, “take joy, my King, in what you hear, may it be a sweet, sweet sound, in your ear,” lulling me to a distant place of peace.
Sometimes today, when the world is too dark and heavy, I carry myself back to these memories, tucking myself in the bed of my childhood, listening to her soothing voice. I remember that every person, no matter how deeply evil, was once cradled, too. They once looked into the world with wide eyes, expecting the best and wanting no more than love. Perhaps that is still what they want, and somewhere along the road were simply misguided.