On this third day of my 27 day posting project I’m looking into my memory bank. What are we but a collection of memories ? What are we but a gathering of our stories and other people’s stories of us ? What are we but the story we build for ourselves ?
I think often of the stories that people tell about their lives, the lives they have lived and the memories they hold close; to comfort them when they need it the most. I am often looking at old pictures of myself, my other lives; my childhood in Greece, my teenage years in the U.S, my adult years in London and back in Greece, and now my present life. It’s all a scrap book, for the next chapter to be written. Yet I find myself clinging to memories, my memories of my grandmother cooking in my old house in Athens, my American grandmother watching television with her saltines and peanut butter, my Greek grandfather and his brother playing backgammon on the balcony of his home on a warm summer night. The first time I saw snow on a trip to Austria with my parents when I was five, and my insistence of carrying it home back with me to Greece; my first taste of culinary greatness at a restaurant at Place Dophine in Paris, my first kiss….
I often think of how it would be if things turned out differently with the man I loved but who didn’t love me back.
Memories haunt us, comfort us, remind us where we’ve been and where we are going.
What are your memories ?