I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ll tell Scout about the year she was born. When she comes to me in ten, fifteen, twenty years, and she asks me about what life was like in 2020, how do I gently explain to her the strangest period in her parents’ lifetime?
Confession? I’m afraid I won’t remember.
I used to write to remember. Now I write to impress. To fluff my feathers. To be smart. To make calculated moves.
Once upon a time, I wrote simply to write.
Do you know how long it has been since I wrote about my Sasquatch dreams? Like, a post about general crap? Something I found entertaining that had nothing to prove, nothing to sell, nothing to pretend … just a thought that wasn’t curated and edited and filtered into oblivion. Well, it’s been a while. Most likely since the Arkansassy days (*flashback!).
I’ve thought endlessly lately about the frailty of life. I would love to chalk it up to the current global pandemic, but anyone who’s been around for more than twelve seconds knows I have the more-than-occasional penchant for morbidity. I can’t think about life without thinking of its ending, and in that process I start to think about legacies. I think about my Memaw Effie, who passed away almost fifteen years ago, and how little memories that were once so vivid have started to slightly dim. I think about my parents, and how I’ve planned to get the stories of their lives before me for so long, and made excuse after excuse to not actually do it. If something happened to me — what would Scout know? Only what I’ve told those closest to her, and what if their memories have dimmed as well?
The written word endures; the spoke word disappears. -Neil Postman
Making sure that my child has strong memories of those around her is important to me, and as silly as it sounds, writing it here helps. Really, writing it anywhere helps, but this way, I can keep the rest of my family and friends updated as well. As Facebook gets worse and worse, my blog is a piece of my own “social media” that remains untouched by the powers that be. It’s my history lesson, my wedding album, and Scout’s baby book.
So we write to remember.
Now I just need to remember to write.