A Memory or

There is a philosophical division among the females in our clan

Nothing earth shattering; we love and respect each other far too much too allow that to happen.

Yet there doesn’t seem to be much chance of an agreement on the topic of memory.

I, being the elder of the group (something I don’t admit without provocation) have no doubt that I am right.

My younger sister and my favorite daughter don’t agree.

And my beautiful goddaughter (Also my niece) tries valiantly to keep peace and avoid controversy.

Not an easy role I realize.

The dispute is a simple matter; at least in my opinion,

I cannot comprehend how both my sibling and my beautiful child refuse to share my many memories of yesteryears.

My sister, frankly, is uninterested in resurrecting the minutia that I find so intriguing

My daughter is reluctant to step back in time when she feels today is far more important.

And yes, I realize, they are both valid observations and beliefs.

Yet, when I suggest we all traipse down memory lane together and revisit an event or occasion once shared, suddenly, they are both vague or negative.

And I do try to understand when they each claim no recollection of what color the tablecloth was when we last shared dinner with my Mother and Aunt.

Yet I feel the need to substantiate a dormant memory of the hand crocheted red and ivory cloth my Mom treasured.

Perhaps the insignificant and seemingly trivial detail is my way of hiding the pain that it was possibly one of the last times we all broke bread together.

And perhaps choosing to forget also hides the same emotion for both my amazing sister and beautiful daughter.

And even more likely, the wise woman of our intact group is Deborah, who always keeps the peace.

But I know I am right.

The tablecloth was crocheted of red and ivory silk.

The brilliant colors hid the tears when we said goodbye.

Yet they could not erase the sorrow we were reluctant to admit.