14 Years Is A Long Time To Mourn

Well, actually I am not really mourning. But I am remembering. And it's not just the events of fourteen years ago, but the events of my life stretching back over 35 years...I say 35 because I don't think I have any legitimate memories from when I was younger than 3. I could be wrong about that, but I think I would need some kind of regression therapy to get to them. And although I think that may prove helpful to some degree in my life, it's hardly necessary at the moment.

I remember being very young and having my first driving lesson. I was told to keep my eyes on the license plate of the car in front of me, and while that may seem like a mistake to you, to me it not only made perfect sense, but it succeeded too! I never wrecked the car. Didn't even come close! I always felt safe and warm, if you can believe it. There was an aroma that surrounded me...it held me, even in times when there was only the smell, or the memory of it...

There are memories of laughter. Voices. Accents. Crazy sentences! All of this worked it's magic on me and made me feel loved, and that I belonged. Much of the time I was the only audience. I felt that all of these things existed just for me. They were mine alone to keep. Not a "secret", but a special gift. In a way I was right. And now, I think I am the only one of us that keeps these memories polished. There are times when I try to share them with my sisters, but they undoubtedly have their own secret memories, and I am sure that mine would not be as important to them, so I keep mine with me and share them when appropriate with my friends. And I smile. Because the love that I felt as a child in my Father's lap, steering the car down the expressway's of Chicago is the same love that I feel when I speak with a funny accent that I first heard him use. Or when I think of how he used to smell...

Morris Goldstein. I Love You!