Memory as a snapshot
Published at 19 May 2018 1:18 PM EDT in 'General'
My earliest memory is that my great grandmother would keep chocolate in the top drawer of her bedside table, and that she lived in a nursing home with an indoor garden area that had a shuffleboard court. The memory is vivid and strong, but holds little context or story. It is just a snapshot in an album where you remember the people, but not the moment.
I was four when she died (the drawer memory is older than this).
I remember driving to her funeral in Saskatchewan and that my father got a speeding ticket, but my Uncle Randy who sped in front of us did not.
I remember I wore a purple vinyl coat to the services because of the spring rain. It was the same coat that at some point I left a chocolate in the pocket and it melted, it was forever more icky to use.
I remember looking for the pool at the hotel and wanting to go swimming. I am told this is because my brothers kept telling me there was one, but left out the important details that it was an outdoor pool, it was empty, and thus unuseable.
I remember viewing her body and thinking she looked like she was sleeping.
And I remember walking through the graveyard holding my father's hand looking at the place where the coffin would be buried. He pointed out my great grandfathers grave.
I don’t know why all of these memories have stayed with me or why I am contemplating them now. Perhaps it is because it was my first real experience with death and loss. Perhaps it is because as I age I know that this loss is bound to rear its ugly head more often.
Or maybe it is just because it is a rainy and dreary day, much like that day years ago when we buried my Gramma Schaefer.