All we have left are our memories. Memories can be magical moments and offer comfort when we miss a loved one. In the whirling mist of memories, of moments that mattered, of shared laughter and tears, there is nostalgia for what once was. Yet, when we lose someone we loved, and continue to love, are memories all we have left? If memories are the stories etched in our minds, then I believe that ‘no’, that is not all. If memories flow through our veins, informing our actions, our behaviours, if they show up in the skills we use to navigate life, to feel incredible joys and to create beautiful things, then it has to be ‘yes’. Memories are not simply what our mind has claimed, but also what our bodies, our whole beings have absorbed. Memories are as much a part of me, as the green of my eyes.
Image by Miroslava on Unsplash
When I decorate my Christmas biscuits, I do so exactly as my Grandmother taught me; when I play chess, it is my Father’s voice advising me where to place my knight; and when I start to feel impatience with something or someone, it is my Grandfather’s stoic rationality that grounds me. I continue to grow because of these gifts that have been bestowed upon me from loved ones who are no longer physically here. I have occasionally chanced upon an item, scented with familiarity, such as a delicate lace edged handkerchief in a family member’s home, and been told, ‘oh it belonged to your Grandmother, would you like it?’ A posthumous gift.
The story I am about to share below, is a metaphor, celebrating the relationships we continue to have with those we have lost, and the gifts we continue to receive from them.
The Promise
It was a year today since her father died. She jumped at every knock on the door, but when the parcel arrived, the shock paralysed her. She froze as the postman asked her to ‘sign here please madam’. He then shifted awkwardly as she looked up at him, expressionless. It was the sudden bark of her dog that pulled her back to the present. There she stood, still on the doorstep, holding a brown parcel with her father’s handwriting on it.
She recalled her childhood and the happier times when he would playfully tease her but then allow her to get the better of him. She recalled how once when he had stomach pain, she’d asked, ‘are you going to die Daddy?’ and he’d replied laughing, ‘of course not, it’s only indigestion’. That was when he’d made the promise…
As she sat on his knee on the park bench, playfully pulling at the scarf that they’d chosen together for his last birthday, he told her that he promised not to die before he was very old. He promised that if he did, he would send her a present a year after, to prove that he was still looking out for her.
Now, she stared in disbelief at this alien object in front of her. Numb and stupefied, she had carried the parcel to the kitchen and placed it on the table, carefully, as if it could spontaneously burst into flames. Surely this was some strange coincidence? As a torrent of possibilities, contradictions and improbabilities made a beeline for her sanity, she began to tear at the brown packaging, purposefully avoiding tearing through the address.
Looking out of her window, she registered that it was precisely the same kind of autumn day as the one when her father had made his promise in the park. The sun penetrated the amber leaves on the branches, illuminating them with its Midas touch. It tempered the growing chill in the air, and while it did not prevent people from wrapping their scarves around their necks, it did not stop them from smiling either. It was her father’s perfect day: a chilly, crisp, sunny autumn day that invigorated you and tickled your thoughts. A tear fell onto the address, smudging the ink. Her postcode was now a blur. Hands trembling, heart beating, she lifted the lid and stumbled backwards incredulous.
Inside the parcel was a shoebox; inside the shoebox was … the thing they had chosen for her father together, for his birthday.
Holding it to her cheek and inhaling its familiar scent, she exclaimed out loud with joy and sobs and heartbreak all mixed and mashed into one undecipherable code of emotion.
‘my cosy woollen scarf!’
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I hope you enjoyed this post and if you did, please feel free to share to your social media, or just drop me a comment below. I would love to hear your stories too. Wishing you a lovely day and thank you for stopping by xx