Fading Memories
Life Without Parents
I don’t really dream about you anymore. Either of you. I wish I did, but I don’t. I look at photos of us and feel nothing less than emptiness. Sometimes I smile, but I think I am still vacant inside. Full, in one sense, because of my children, your grandchildren, but a void the size of the Grand Canyon in that second sense. I feel love and I love, but I wish I could apply that to both of you.
Fading memories dot the path that I walk on and it scares me to think that one day my children will have fading memories of me. It’s not like I am young anymore. I am over the hill, past the midpoint, and decidedly creaky and in need of oil like the Tin Man. I wonder if you remember me as I remember you. I wonder if your memories of me were erased when you left me. I hope not.
It’s not that I don’t remember still, because I do. I remember you, Mom, calling me Jonnie in that cute voice of yours. I remember you bringing me breakfast in bed and doting on me like I was the only person in this world. And maybe I was because for so long it was just the two of us. I remember you, but I think some things are fading.
It’s not that I don’t remember still, because I do. I remember you, Dad, driving in the car, peeling oranges and handing me the full-size jar of Planters salted peanuts while you told me dirty jokes and taught me…
