That story got me thinking about stuff. Some people elevate stuff by attaching memories to it. Some people don't. I learned to be practical from my mom. She didn’t set store by holding onto stuff. I kept her sweat suit. When I put it on, I feel like she’s giving me a hug. I’ve managed to keep a few of her plants alive. I still drink my coffee every morning from the cup I used at her house. That’s all.
Mom and Dad didn’t take many pictures after we grew out of our cute, baby stages. I don’t take many pictures either. My mind’s eye is pretty good, though. My memories feel like snapshots. The image starts a short scene. Sometimes a smell triggers a memory. Sometimes I hear a familiar accent that reminds me of my grandparents and my great-grandma. And songs, of course.
I remember where I was when the towers came down. That’s part of being American. I don’t need to look at a picture.
When Phillipe Petit made his famous walk in 1974, I was a busy newlywed. My ex-husband had just graduated from college. He started his first “real” job and we had our own home, but no kids yet. We were on the way to making our own memories. Some good, some not so good. But all saved in my mind’s eye.