Memory is a series of snapshots. We craft our identity from these frozen moments in time that we think we can remember.
Snap.
I sit above my bedroom on the lip of the closet. I climbed up my bookcase to get here, and I know I might get in trouble for doing it. I can’t stop staring down at the familiar made strange. School is going to be starting again soon–sixth grade? seventh?–and seeing things differently makes it seem more like an adventure.
Snap.
I’m sprawled in the blue chair, my bare feet pressed against the cold window. I never worry that the glass might break. I rotate the chair back and forth without thinking. I am living far away in my book right now. The only things that are real are the story and the smoothness of the glass.
Snap.
I sit on the floor, tears on my cheeks. I throw a shoe against the door; it makes a satisfying thump but leaves a black mark. I don’t want the reminder of this moment. I am twenty years old and I miss my mom and the room reeks of betrayal.
Snap.
I’m in a large room filled with two rows of beds, I don’t know how many, maybe twenty? Each bed is occupied by a stranger. I don’t want to be here, and I pretend I’m far, far away, in a bedroom that no longer exists. It’s easier to pretend in the dark. Tomorrow I will leave Amsterdam and head south to Belgium.
The park in Amsterdam. I neglected to take a photo of my dubious hostel.
Snap.
I yell words that are too true, but later on I convince myself I made them up. Only I didn’t, and that mostly hidden knowledge eats a little hole in the base of my sternum.
Snap.
I can’t sleep because I am so excited about tomorrow. How many times have I lain in exactly this position, happiness coursing through my body with each heartbeat? I buzz with anticipation. There is no place I’d rather be.
Snap.
I liked the last snap, but I didn’t know what you were looking forward to
Touched by the sharing of these snaps. Maybe that is maternal instinct….
We also pull up the snapshots we want to or must for some reason remember, leaving the others to rest until we change the story of ourselves. And if we’re not insanely careful we’ll even mix some snapshots up out of moments disjointed in time. Identity creation is a very creative thing, isn’t it? Thanks for sharing some of the building blocks of your current one.
If only memories were like photo albums: they sit on a shelf until you want to look at them. But all too often memories come at you unsought.