Pining for a Pensieve

Memory looks like a cavernous dark archive à la the Department of Mysteries with Polaroids made of gossamer lace lining the walls. 

Or rather, this is what I want memory to look like. I wistfully imagine that memory is tangible to battle the fear that lace Polaroids will disintegrate, that memories will be lost, and that pieces of those I love most dearly will disappear. When memory is all that is left, the thought of it slipping away feels as painful as physical loss itself.

My grandfather fought a battle predestined to end in defeat: he battled Dementia. I watched a strong, independent man with the willpower of a bull descend into not only immobility but the black hole of memory loss. I watched my mother and grandmother tell and retell the same stories with new words to make each retelling slightly different than the last. I watched my family mourn his passing through tear-soaked blue surgical masks. Most importantly, I watched a celebration of his memory and his life.

I can still recall the feeling of laying on the royal blue carpet of the living room that housed a grandfather clock and a growing collection of potted plants. My fingers tingle slightly thinking about running my hand along the sandpaper-textured brick of my grandparents’ house while playing with a green and white Hess-branded soccer ball in the backyard. I can taste the crisp sesame seeds on the crunchy crust of the Italian bread my grandpa brought to dinners, smell the decaf Lipton black tea he drank with dessert, and hear his voice telling me to keep my “eyes and ears open” as they left.

These sights, smells, tastes, and textures are the bold outlines of my cherished memories. And yet, I feel defeated admitting that I will never again experience these moments outside of my own mind. Worse yet, what if one day the outline of these memories gets hazy, and the sound of his voice less distinct? The image of Bing Bong slowly disappearing in Pixar’s Inside Out involuntarily comes to mind, a jarring depiction of my deep fear that one day I may lose a part of my grandpa again. Tears, stories, and love are the paving stones of my road through grief and fear that guided me to two personal truths. 

First, I do not believe that memories disappear without clinical reasons. My anxiety was adamant that forgetting memories is a terrifying potential reality. While it would have been easier to acquiesce to my anxiety, I logic-ed my way to victory. I realized that I have never needed to discard memories to make room for new ones, and my mind is not a computer with limited storage space. I chose to place the image of Bing Bong fading with one of Polaroids shrouded in dust or simply shadow. I believe that memories will always be there, we may just need a little extra light to find them.

Second, fearing the loss of precious memories not only prevents cherishing them, but limits the ability to make new memories. Living in fear is like watching a movie with earplugs and blackout sunglasses: you do not fully know what is happening in front of you. Truly honoring my grandpa, his memory, and his love for me means that I do not just hear “Eyes and ears open” replayed in my mind, but that I truly listen. I keep my eyes and ears open to keep myself safe. However, without my eyes and ears open, I cannot truly experience everything around me. I choose to celebrate his legacy through my actions, through embracing our shared love of food and travel, and living fully. I am discarding fear by removing my blackout sunglasses and throwing away my earplugs.

Grandpa, I am keeping my eyes and ears open.

Authentically,
Cate