deconstructing my past

some things live happily in our memory, so perfect, so deeply ingrained in our psyche, that we cannot fathom them any other way. we cannot imagine why they would ever change. they are almost sacred to our hearts so that when they are thrust into view, the image is like the proverbial knife twisting slowly in your gut.

to those who would not know otherwise, this image would seem benign.

and yet to me, it is a tragedy of sorts. a seemingly innocent image is horrifying and yet i cannot look away, such are my efforts to try to understand.

this is wrong. it's all wrong.

you see... that house belonged to my grandparents. that house is where the vast majority of my childhood was spent. that house was nothing short of perfect in my mind's eye.

but time marches on relentlessly. the circle of life stole away the people who dwelt there so that they live only in the hearts of those who knew them. and new people live inside those walls now. new people to whom i desperately want to ask why.

why would you cut down those two white birch trees that my Gram loved?
why would you cut down those two stately evergreens that stood like sentinels in front of the house, protecting it from the whipping Winter winds, the noise of cars travelling on the road, the fierce sunlight that wanted to pour into the eastern-facing windows of the master bedroom as the sun would rise?
why would you cut down that lovely giant ash tree that stood at the corner of the driveway, casting shade over the front yard in the heat of the Summer?

the house looks so vulnerable. so naked. the yard empty, stripped of those gorgeous old trees... and it makes me sad.

i came home, aching to see the house and the front yard as i remember it. lush and full of life. i wanted to strike that new image from my mind and replace it with the one that lives in my memories. and so i turned to hundreds upon hundreds of photos, arranged neatly in boxes. i found the right box & began flipping through photographs, slowly at first, but then with more urgency. surely i had one... *one* photo showing the house as it ought to be. and as my fingers brushed the last photo in the box, it hit me. there is not one. not from the angle i wish to see it. so many photos of the house from other directions, of the backyard, the orchard, the gardens. but not a single solitary photo in my whole collection of that house i love with its beautiful front yard...

though i could have cried at this realization, i didn't. i just felt a little hollow. because i can picture it perfectly but without an actual photo in my hands, that memory will not survive after me. i cannot show the people who have since come into my life, or who have yet to do so, how it was, how it no longer is nor can ever be again...

pick up your cameras. pick them up & use them. capture these details of your life, no matter how silly they seem, no matter how mundane or trivial. their value increases with time, in ways you can't begin to imagine. someone will come after you who will cherish those same images that you took for granted. they will look at them with a warm heart & damp eyes. you cannot place a price on a memory. there can never be enough. even as blessed as i am that my grandparents took so many photos, there are *still* pieces missing that i would give anything to look at with gentle reminiscence now. their wisdom in capturing these minute details was lost on my youthful naivete for so long but now i understand with a bittersweet smile. it makes me want to wrap my arms around my precious memories, gathering close that which is most dear to me.

i find myself grasping at the few "almost" photos that reveal glimpses of what i can when i close my eyes. they are imperfect... and yet they are perfect in their own right. perfect in that they have captured even a corner of my life that no longer exists. see for yourself how full of life that empty yard above once was...



as something in me twists at the sight of that beloved piece of my past, forever lost to the passage of time & the changing of hands, i cannot help but to hear inside my mind, Steve Martin's character in the movie "Father of the Bride Part Two", as he rescues the house he loves at the very last moment before the wrecking ball makes contact, the house he thought he wanted to be rid of, the words tumbling forth...

"Don't bulldoze my memories, man."