IRRETRIVABLE MEMORIES
I’m blessed to have a great collection of childhood stories. I’ve come to realize that not everyone has them, and I’m grateful for mine. These stories came to me through the eyes and ears of others — parents, grandparents, friends of the family, aunts and uncles, and older cousins.
No one remembers the first couple of years of their lives. There is even a name for it — Childhood Amnesia. An overload of the hippocampus — the part of the brain where new experiences get filed into our long-term memory — is responsible for our inability to remember our early years. Therefore, we depend on others for the knowledge of that part of our history.
My parents got divorced before I turned four. Consequently, I have no memories of that unique time when I lived with my parents. Thankfully, I was raised by grandparents who loved to tell me stories. I’m grateful to know so much about the past I can’t recall. In fact, I’ve heard some stories enough times that my consciousness now treats them as if they were my own memories. When I think of them, it feels like I’m watching silent black & white films. Through the years, I’ve come to think of these as my own memories — vividly colored by fancy and greatly expanded by imagination.
Looking back, even these irretrievable memories played a part in the person I grew up to become. Some of them were foundational to the way I view my history, impacting influential relationships in my life. One such a story recently had an interesting development. I’ve considered it a fact for over five decades of my life, only to be told that it never took place! I was flabbergasted! This felt like an assault to my sanity. I asked myself — “Could I have understood the story wrong?” “Did the person who told me about it lie?” “Is the person claiming this never took place wrong, or deceitful?”
In the end, this was my conclusion — it doesn’t matter. This story has affected my past, and therefore, become a real part of my life. There is no erasing its influence now. All I can do is place a Question Mark (?) at the end of it, and let it remain a part of my past.
Ever since I can remember, the stories I know about the years my memory can’t retrieve have held especial meaning in my life. They helped me evolve. Each of them came to me through a reliable source, embellished or not. They have touched my heart and informed my mind and filled my consciousness with deliciously wild tales.
I’m eternally grateful to story tellers who shared them with me. These stories were a gift of love, and I will always treasure them as such. I’m especially grateful to my grandparents, for allowing these accounts to become a significant part of my history.
