I've been thinking about memory lately. That sounds kind of weird doesn't it, that phrase, "thinking about memory?"
Last night I decided to put up the Xmas tree and do some decorating around the house. I had been playing Scrooge up till now but got to feeling the guilts about our grandkids primarily. And truth be known, I do actually like to see a decorated tree standing in the living room. Particularly since we have so little furniture, ha, ha.
So John brought the tree up (it's a fake, he is allergic to pine) and put it in front of the windows where it looks pretty cool from the outside plus we also have a nice view from the family room. After Yoga and dinner, I finally got started on the decorating. It was late and I wasn't really in the best of moods. I had this idea that John and I would do it together - in my imaginary tree decorating scenario, a fire would be crackling, lovely jazzy versions of Christmas carols playing, we would be sipping some mulled cider or perhaps hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows......but alas, it was just me with 3 cat spectators while John watched Monday night football.
And it started the minute I opened the ornament box. The memories that is.
Because it seems like every ornament has it's story. Perhaps it was home made, I have lots of those. There are also some from my childhood and John's. Others were passed down through the years and are preciously old. Many were gifts to people who are now gone, remnants of another day. They all have a story to tell, these bastard ornaments. Some were so lame they made me chuckle and I chose to not even put them on the tree. But others brought tears to my eyes, especially the expansive collection of shooting stars.
I guess it is a collection of lives. I remember the stories that go along with each one. So odd because I can't even remember where I put my cell phone but I have carefully catalogued every one of these memories. And I wonder will anyone want to listen to my stories?