The Other

The memories help, but I must take care not to overindulge.

They are as comforting as warm milk accompanied by a freshly baked oatmeal cookie but far more dangerous.

Still they become a port of call when life seems slippery and I fear falling from the narrow road bordered with many restrictive demands.

And undeniably, the memories are not accurate because they arrive gift wrapped in pink tulle and silver ribbon. The rainy days of concern that were never immersed in froth are not revived. They remain forgotten in the limbo of yesterdays.

Pain is never dredged up for remembrance, nor should it be.

Yet perhaps on occasion it should be to inject accuracy into memory.

When I remember the laughter, and the fun of a crowded household, I relinquish the exhaustion of car pools, an unending cycle of laundry, and the not always submerged anxieties of being a parent.

I forget the tension inherent while waiting for acceptance both educational and social. I recall the joy when applications were received, invitations accepted, but reject the memories of four goodbyes.

I recall the frenzy of a crowded dinner table shared with laughter, love and pasta.

I neglect the other memory of the empty room when everyone had gone home after a September funeral.

And like many other topics, it is best not to overindulge in memories either.