In 2024, my dear mother-in-law passed away. She and my father-in-law had lived in their beloved home for almost 60 years. After the memorial and other decisions were finalized, my husband, sister-in-law, and I began to sift through, and linger over, five decades of nostalgia. My mother-in-law was meticulous; a retired surgical nurse, her organizational skills bested those of anyone I knew. As we pored over photos and scrapbooks filled with names and dates and places, we were not surprised. From majestically written postcards, to 1950s hotel receipts, to multiple stamp and coin collections, each piece we lifted from a lifetime of treasured memories yielded another story.
Although old, worn, tattered, or smelling-of-a-different-time, these possessions held a value not defined by monetary standards. They were now a larger piece of our daily lives. Our home holds valuables, precious to my husband’s parents, that will remain with us until our sons walk the path of nostalgia and decision-making themselves.
Several months later, as we approached the listing date for their home, we found ourselves physically and emotionally exhausted. Packing up and storing belongings of people you loved takes its toll. When the house sold, I silently promised myself, right then, that I would spare my sons as much of that as I could. When they need to unpack and repack pieces of their lives with us as a family, I hope the process will be easier. That has brought me a level of relief and a really big project of my own.
My grandmothers were especially adept at sending cards for all occasions. As I began my quest to sort through some of my most cherished memories, I found it especially difficult to throw away the birthday and graduation cards, the baby shower and wedding cards, the notes from each of them. At first.
Then, I realized that taking the time now to read them once more and perhaps take a photo of the particularly poignant ones, I am saving my sons from that chore. My perspective changed, and I smiled, laughed, and shed a few tears going through Mother’s Day gifts and letters titled “To My Mommy,” framed, painted handprints that grace pieces of cardboard, and multiple “Flat Stanley’s” the boys mailed off in Elementary School. The memories can be overwhelming, especially those with a visual component, like artwork or a school photo on a bookmark that one of my cherubs made for my birthday.
The handmade necklaces and pins, portraits of Tim and me where we resemble maniacal aliens with yarn hair and button eyes, sweet crayoned holiday notes and back-to-school night programs were sorted. None of these are easily set aside. Many items I will keep and treasure, clay pots, baseball jerseys, Adventures in Art “statues” and portfolios filled with reports, tests, and projects, so I can enjoy them and eventually allow my sons to decide their fate. These precious gifts and items from my days as an emerging parent are some of the most valuable possessions I have.
It is important to check on those past moments occasionally to remind yourself where you’ve come from, how far you’ve traveled, and how you came to be who you are. For me, the epiphany has been the ability to release the hold the past had on me, to choose what to keep so I could revisit those memories, as a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. Sharpening some memories while letting others dissipate, like water cascading or trickling down a slope, is a powerful skill, honed over time, and in my case, through lots of therapy.
Waking up to a new day means having the chance to start over. Our foundations are built on experience and memories, but all the days and events do not have the formidability to define us. Not all of us were built on Candyland dreams and idealized moments. Growing and living, we are surrounded with opportunities to learn, live, assess, revisit and choose to reshape old goals while releasing others and sometimes dreaming up new ones. Time affords us the chance to sift and sort.
Flashes of my memories happen often, without provocation or identifiable trigger. At times, they just appear, seemingly out of context, and I am caught up in them. I’m in the second grade, two long pigtails, donning a white and brown dress that rests just above my knees. Long light brown knee socks and black Mary Janes complete the outfit. I am smiling, walking toward an empty bottle on the ground, clothespins in my right hand. It is a game; I am standing above a jar, releasing the clothespins, watching some ricochet off the rim, knowing that whoever gets the most inside will win a prize. It is my birthday party. I am seven, and Betty Boop is on TV in the background.
Flash! It’s Christmas morning and I’m 10, in fifth grade. My brothers and I all got new bikes. I ride my blue Schwinn cruiser for the entire day, enjoying the freedom of having “wheels.”
A bar of music plays in my head and I’m staring at a stage, almost 12 now. The music is loud, but the drama is louder. I’m dancing next to my best friend, Stacey, and her mom, Cheryl. The program from the show rests in my childhood scrapbook, a keepsake from my first concert at the Forum in Inglewood; I was a lucky attendee at Queen, with Freddie Mercury, and it turned me into a lifelong fan.
I am 14, with my friends and my first boyfriend, sitting in the dark on the People Mover ride at Disneyland. It is 1983 and I’m kissed for the first time.
Our poignant memories are the grout between the tiles of our present days, bonding who we were with who we might become. The studs, like our past, hold up the frame that houses our experiences and shoulders the weight of our choices. The past can be a wonderous reminder of the good and bad, but it can also be a dangerous place to dwell too long.
It is important to remember what shaped you, to hold on to the poignant moments, but it is the power of present choices that defines tomorrow. If I make mistakes, and I often do, I try to learn from them. I apologize to others. I ask for forgiveness and I pray. I remind myself that no matter how indispensable I think I might be, there will come a time when I am but a whisper, a breath exhaled as a sigh when someone thinks of me. I hope to be remembered for having been a conscious work-in-progress and that others will be inspired to do the same.
I so wish my treasured memories would stay with me. But even when some fade or disappear altogether, the formative imprint will remain, an echo of that little seven-year-old with pigtails. The dark days and sadness will also remain, akin to staring into a bright light and watching the outline dissipate while the brightness remains. I have the strength to choose not to look.
The moments with my brothers, sister, grandparents and cousins remain steadfast. Sitting on a field, stretching before a soccer game, walking off that field with shoulders slumped, defeat pressing its full weight down on my body, and sometimes feeling elated with a victory, celebrating an accomplishment. I hold fast to these moments, sharing them with my sons, even when they have heard them repeatedly. I find myself saying more often now, “Remember when we…”
My diplomatic physician beautifully described this time in my life as the “third act.” Rather than a second half, my third act will be the finale, the denouement of my entire story with my vibrant encore within my children and what they choose to keep and share. I strive to make my third act a reflection of all I have learned. Most of all, I hope to forgive myself, remembering that although the past created me, I am now in control of what portion of the past surfaces. I choose what to hear and what to ignore, within this culmination of grace and peace. Perhaps, that is yet another gift of aging, of time, and reflection. My past no longer controls me; it is merely a tool to assist me in defining the present and fully embracing what comes. My mother used to give me paper dolls with dozens of outfits. Sometimes, I would dress my doll with several outfits at a time. I didn’t know why back then, but it occurred to me later that one outfit was insufficient. My doll could shed layers that gave her options.
As I continue sorting items and memories, I reflect gratefully on the inspiration from my beloved mother-in-law. The act of shedding what is no longer needed has brought me enormous peace. Here’s to the encore!
