I love the Facebook memories feature.
I also hate the Facebook memories feature.
It’s fun to scroll through the things I’ve said or posted in the past, especially when it involves chubby babies screaming at each other in an echoing hallway. (If I could figure out how to embed that video here, I would, but that would involve digging up old hard drives, and that’s pushing my laziness.)
But mostly the Facebook memories remind me of a few less-than-stellar things:
- I used to share a lot of senseless content, just for the sake of sharing.
- My old Android phone had a terrible camera (that I probably thought was good at the time. All hail the iPhone 6).
- I used to complain about my kids not napping a LOT.
Also, my kids used to say a lot of hilarious things, like
The other day I was reminded that Thanksgiving fell on November 22, 2012. And I was graced with this in my memories:
This is one of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken. Two-year-old Zoe crawled into my Mimi’s lap for some snuggles on this Thanksgiving afternoon, a holiday that my grandmother herself had hosted for years and years, but this year she wasn’t up to it. This year the torch was passed to my sister and my parents, and we’ve had Thanksgiving at their house ever since.
Sometimes I forget that she’s not here anymore. I find myself going about my daily life, hardly giving it a thought. I’m the only family member that lives out of town, and I feel oddly disconnected a lot of the time. Just yesterday I spoke to my mom on the phone, and she asked me if I knew about my dad’s knee surgery.
“No,” I said, and with the maturity of a teenager, I followed up with, “No one tells me anything.” I knew my dad was planning on having his [second] knee replacement surgery, but as far as updates and plans, I am usually left out of the loop.
Living apart from so many physical reminders of my childhood aids in the forgetting. Once in a while though, I’ll be struck by something that reminds me of her so painfully, I can hardly breathe. Once it was a song playing in an episode of Friday Night Lights, something that was the exact type of music my grandparents would have playing on their stereo on a lazy Sunday post-church afternoon. Most times it’s a glimpse of a white-haired elderly woman in the grocery store. I bite my lip during the rest of my shopping and return to my car to cry with more force than I ever did on the day I found out she had passed, or even at her funeral. I’m struck dumbfounded at the idea that I will never see her again in this life.
Claire was having a rough night a few weeks ago. We sat on the couch together while she cried about getting disciplined and cried at feeling unloved, then cried because she missed her Mimi.
“Oh, honey, I miss her too,” I said. “I really do. But we’ll see her again some day.”