Memory

Watching "Adam" from this season of Torchwood made me think about the quality, the nature, of memory. Of how our identities and our selves are constructed not only of flesh and bone and blood, but of the scraps and threads of thought and recall that construct what we think of who we are.

What are the things we tend to remember? The really happy moments, the tragic ones, the traumatic ones. But we also sometimes remember pieces of our everyday lives: leftovers from breakfasts, lunches, and dinners eaten with the people we see or saw on a nearly constant basis; the tatters of an old favorite blanket or shirt or dress; the scruff of a beloved stuffed toy or pet.

I remember a moment of childhood spent in my mother's rose garden behind a grey house, tier upon tier of mulched flowerbeds, a green kiddie pool, and a red wooden fence.

I remember illness, the acrid smell of a hospital, the stiff cotton of the green speckled gown, the pain of the IV in my arm, the comforting familiar presence of a large purple unicorn lying above my head on my pillow. The taste of bad canned corn pushed around in an unbreakable bowl while watching the same cartoon movie over and over. Darkness. The strange, half-real blue of nighttime and rage. Hating what they did, what they wanted, what was wrong with me.

I remember endless summer days, swimming in the pool. Playing with the dog. The new cat - the one that hated me - climbing a tree. The salamanders I rescued bloated with chlorinated water. They were blue-black with yellow spots. Their skin was slick and rubbery, their feet like tiny wet pads.

I remember the county fair. The smells of beer and sawdust. Popcorn. Animals. The roar of people and of stock cars.

I remember the smell of crabapple trees in spring. The sneezing.

The sound of water trickling. The scent of Easter lilies and candles and incense. The cool crinkle of a new white dress.

I remember the pink linen dress with white and purple ribbons my mother made me. I remember wearing it whenever I could.

I remember many things. What I do not remember is the feeling of despair. I know I felt it, once. I know I thought the world - my world - was at an end. I know I blamed myself and everyone around me.

I do not remember this. I know it happened. I remember the clothes I wore, the food I often ate, the car I drove. I remember things I did. I do not remember the despair.

What does this mean? No idea. What do I take from it?

I am not that person. I have little to link myself to her but the knowledge that we have shared memories of the same little girl. The girl who loved dogs and cats and trees and flowers and water. The little girl who didn't understand just how sick she was. The little girl who never let herself be told "you can't."

So who are we? We are what we decide to allow ourselves to be. I don't mean our jobs. I don't mean what other people think of us. Those things don't make us what we are. They contribute to our thoughts, our memories, certainly, but they don't form us. It is how we respond, what we learn, and how we choose to recall our memories that reveals what we have become.

Our memories are the texts, the poems, the plays of our lives. They are the language and the scenes that make up the formation of our characters. They are informed by what we have written into them, but also by the way we read them.

We are the books of ourselves. The stories of our own lives. The verses and rhythms and meters that beat out the timbre of each year, each day, each hour. We are romances. Adventures. Fantasies. Mysteries. Endless pages waiting to be written and read. To be lived.