Letters To Ourselves

Isn’t it interesting how scars are etched into our bodies that we often can’t remember. There’s a rather large scar on my nose and the sole reason I know where it came from is because my parents told me.

I also have memories that seem as faded as worn out blue jeans. I’ve always heard that each time you remember something you are simply remembering the last time you remembered it. A memory begins as clear as crystal, but each time it’s remembered it becomes murky and distorted. Sometimes I feel as if I’m grasping onto something while the wind is trying to rip it from my hands. It’s so distant that I can hardly see it. I know with age this will become worse. It’s frightening to think of the things I won’t remember as the years pass by. The things I will lose.

Memory is a fleeting thing. It is also a treasured thing. Memories of a loved one’s smile, the feeling of someone’s arms wrapped tightly around us, the laughter of an old friend, or the smell of a pie baking in grandma’s oven. Some things we will never experience again exist only in our memory.

Bad memories live there, also. Those we are pleased to forget. Sometimes, it seems though, that those are the ones that remain the longest. They linger like ghosts in the night, waiting to reveal themselves to us again and again. Those we wish would leave and never return.

All memories, however good or bad, are gifts. A portal to another time. Possibly memory is our only hope of time travel. Writing often gives those memories the ability to exist forever. It gives them the eternal life they deserve. A thought written on a paper may never vanish from our mind like vapor. They become like letters to ourselves.

Grab a pen before you forget.

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