Remembering You

By



 

First published October 22, 2012




Please let my whole life pass always remembering you.

May my breath come to an end always remembering you.

May nothing stand in the way,

May nothing stand in the way

To reach my true home again.


Lyrics from a beautiful new song by John Adorney.


Our twelve-year-old was looking over my shoulder last night as I sat at my roll top desk clicking away at the keyboard, touching up a piece of writing that has been on my mind for the last week or so, and said, quite innocently, "Watcha doin', Pops?"


He calls me Pops because I told him once that that's what I want my grandkids to call me when the day comes. I had a picture in my mind of this crazy old coot propped up in the corner of the living room, drooling, smiling vacantly, his head bobbing slowly, and the rest of the family talking about him as if he wasn't there. You know: "So, what do we do with Pops? He can't stay here!" And me, looking for all the world like an addled white raisin burritoed in my lap blanket in my rocking chair, a shell of who I once was, looking as if I don't know what planet I'm on when in fact I understand every word they're saying. To me, "Pops" is the perfect moniker for a withering old man who's still got a few jokes up his sleeve and an eye for the ladies.


"Just writing a little," I said.


"Geez, Baba, you're always writing. Just exactly how much have you written anyway?


I opened my computer files and showed him all the completed novels, the two books in progress, the long collection of short stories, the book of "life lessons" I wrote for kids like him, the poetry; then I opened the bottom drawer of my desk to show him all the stories that haven't even made it to transcription in the computer yet; then led him over to the bookcase that contains 32 volumes of journals I've kept since 1978; and finally I told him where he can find original handwritten manuscripts of most of the short stories and the very first novel I ever wrote.


"Baba, I just can't believe it. I mean, you were born at the perfect time, grew up with the best generation and the best music (he was referring to the 60s). You've lived such an interesting life. It just isn't fair. Is that why you write all these stories?"


"That's part of it," I told him.


Looking upon memories from as far back as my conscious mind will allow- which means deep into my formative years -I can recall being acutely aware that time waits for no one, that like everyone and everything else in the universe, I have an expiration date. I just don't know when it is. And because I have always known that the meter is running, I have paid special and critical attention to all the people who have passed through the curtains of my life and taken their place on stage. Did not Shakespeare say that all the world's a stage, and all the people on it merely players? It amazes me daily how I will be walking through my day and suddenly, for no discernible reason, a face or a name from the past- sometimes from far too many years ago -will rise to the surface of my consciousness, catch a breath, and look around long enough for me to grab a peek of her, or him, and then dive back down into the dark depths of my memory perhaps not to be seen nor thought of again for many, many years- if ever. Sometimes the least of my personal past encounters makes a wholly unexpected and bewildering appearance, a person long ago forgotten who reemerges from the past to say quietly, I remember you; please remember me.


As romantic and unscientific as it sounds, I accept the idea of essence; I do believe we are eternal. I do believe that the universe brings us into contact with certain individuals, perhaps again and again and again, like the meshing teeth in a system of cogs. How else to explain the familiarity I have felt with some people, though my relationships with them may have only been superficial? Why was I drawn to them so powerfully, or they to me? As I sit writing this- right this second -individuals are popping in and out of the picture: the girl who backed into my brand new car twenty-five years ago late one night in Houston, and who shared very meaningful and forgiving sentiments with me over the phone for the next few nights even though I had been verbally abusive to her when the accident happened. I have never forgotten her. Or any of the thousands of students I've known over the years: why do their faces and names from decades ago emerge when I least expect them? Why am I remembering Jay and Stevie, the very odd brother and sister pairing I knew as a six-year-old when we lived in the Ramblewood Apartments in Baltimore? Why do I recall with such clarity the time I stopped and changed the right rear tire for that lady on the shoulder of the on ramp in Humble, Texas, twenty or thirty years ago? Was she my guardian angel, or was I hers? Why do I remember names and faces I don't want to remember? And why do I love people in the present and the past I have no business loving? Why, in any group, do we gravitate toward some people but not others?


Psychological reasons? Real or perceived attraction? Yes, yes, certainly. But that's in the moment. More to the point, why do you remember the face of the girl or boy you had a crush on in junior high school who ruined every night's sleep because you couldn't stop thinking about him/her, or that square-headed oaf who sat near you in the third grade and smelled so bad, but you can't for the life of you recall the name of the new member of the club you met just last week? The answer, I think, is that you don't have to remember those in the present, because their time with you is not over, yet. You're both still in the present. But let a few years and some distance come between you . . .


What better homage then could I pay to those who have honored me by coming within my orbit than to absorb their essence into my mind and welcome their unexpected visits in my dreams, or in some cases, weave them directly into the tapestries of my stories? The story of my life is filled with major and minor characters, of course, but none goes unremembered. So, to all, and especially to those who have touched my life in deeply meaningful, emotional, perhaps mysterious and enchanting ways, I echo the sentiment in John Adorney's lyric tonight:


Please let my whole life pass always remembering you.

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