“In the quiet times of my life, I occasionally reach into the back of mind and try to recall better, more peaceful times when happiness was easily found, when friendships were abundant, and when life was most enjoyable. Instead, I am often plagued by the memories of bygone days and of things left undone or unsaid. I am haunted by recollections of the bridges I have burned and the friendships I have lost. These are the memories that make up my life. At times, I feel I have become an old soul trapped in the body of a younger man, trying my hardest to live up to the expectations I've set for myself, and those set for me by the people I've let down in the past.” Less than two short years ago, I penned this paragraph in my notebook, while trying to think of the memories in my life that made up the fabric of “me”. Try as I might, at that point in my life, I could not clear away the mental debris and crawl from the rubble to find my good memories. I had pushed them aside and replaced them with all of the darkest memories that remained.
One of the dark memories that has haunted me since the day it occurred was the last day I ever fished with my grandfather. No, it was not on some peaceful lake or on a forgotten trout stream. The day was not bright and warm, in fact, it was raining outside, and the only light was that which shone in the window of a first floor room of a nursing home. My grandfather had severe dementia, likely brought on by countless other ailments that had taken everything but the shell of the man that I once saw as the strongest, most respectable man I had ever known. As I sat by his side, talking with my grandmother, who also resided in the nursing home, my grandfather raised his hand as though holding a fishing rod, and began to turn the reel with his other hand. I think that, in his mind, he truly believed that I was at his side, fishing as we had done so many times before. Tears came to my eyes, and the image burned itself into the back of my mind. I sat for as long as I could hold my tears, and left as the first rolled from my eye. A few days after, my grandfather passed away. To the best of my knowledge, the first time I ever took the opportunity to tell my grandfather how I felt about him was at his funeral, and the words were audible only to me, resonating in the corridors of my own thoughts. I have tried a countless number of times to replace this memory with one of the many happier memories that I have of my grandfather, but my efforts have been in vain.
Of the memories we hold in the confines of our minds, we may at times forget some of the details. The date, or time, or place may escape our consciousness. Should we fail to recall all other components of our memories, the one element that should be locked into the memoirs of our days must be the people that have been by our side to see our trials and tribulations, our missteps and our masterpieces. I urge that above all other things, we should push the very edges of our cognizance to never forget the people that have lived our adventures with us.
As we make memories with the people in our lives, we should, in turn, polish them as they occur so that they never lose their luster. Embellish them by making them as valuable as possible. Take the opportunity to tell or at least show the people around you what they mean to you. Swallow...no, devour... your pride and convey your feelings to the people around you. We do not have, nor ever will have, the ability to amend the opportunities we have missed throughout the course of our lives. The ashes of burnt opportunity should never be allowed to cloud the brilliance of the recollections that we hold dear. Treat those in your lives as though they are the gems that sparkle the brightest when you someday clear away the cobwebs, dust off the treasure chest of your mind, and marvel at the riches you've accumulated in your life.
I'm really not one for profound statements, and those who know me know that, at times, I struggle to even say the things I'm attempting to say without thinking before every word. The ability of spoken word is apparently one that has escaped me somehow, which is why I so often choose to write my thoughts, instead. I know some of you may have heard me say the following statement before, but I'm throwing it out there again because it resonates so loudly in my own mind whenever I think of the people in my own life: Our own candle shall never have the ability to shine so brightly alone as it does when illuminated by the flame of those around us. This is a thought that sticks in the back of my mind as I attempt to make new memories with the people around me, so that someday, during the darkest times in my own life, my memories shall forever shine through.
That was beautiful. :)
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