Mementos

[et_pb_section fb_built="1" _builder_version="3.0.47"][et_pb_row _builder_version="3.0.47" background_size="initial" background_position="top_left" background_repeat="repeat"][et_pb_column type="4_4" _builder_version="3.0.47" parallax="off" parallax_method="on"][et_pb_text _builder_version="3.0.47" background_size="initial" background_position="top_left" background_repeat="repeat"]I’m only in New Jersey for five more weeks, so I’m trying to see my friends as often as possible. When I saw Nina this week, she gave me a sweater.It’s a long gray duster with jagged zigzags of burgundy, chocolate brown, and red, made of dense alpaca wool. She held it up to her cheek like a security blanket. “I love this sweater, but it really doesn’t look good on me and I never wear it. I thought it would keep you warm in Lithuania.”Well, to be honest, it doesn’t look good on me either. But I’ll wear it like a hug. This sweater, the existence of which was unaware until thirty seconds before Nina pulled it out a a box somewhere, will now play its part in standing in for Nina herself while I’m four thousand miles away.When Mom had Alzheimer’s, I ended up going through her houseful of things and wondering why she kept them. Her world had contracted from a town to a neighborhood, to a house, to a room, to a bed. As her territory receded like a pond in a drought, the things left behind were rendered meaningless. Maybe she kept the little wooden box from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, not because she liked it so much, but because Dad brought her chocolates. I know she kept the pins because they belonged to her mother. Once she forgot the narrative, the box was just a box, and the pins just gaudy clusters of rhinestones.As I sorted through Mom’s things, there was no way for me to know which ones were mere tools, and which were keepsakes. In the end, it didn’t matter. It was her mind, not mine, which had first connected the original experience with the artifact.I know I’ll enjoy that sweater and feel loved every time I wear it. But if the day comes when I no longer remember Nina, the sweater will be just another garment. My kids will be donate it, and ask each other, “Of all things, why did Mom keep this?”However, here’s a happier thought: I never needed mementos of my friends when I lived in New Jersey. A keepsake isn’t necessary when the present is happy, any more than Tuesday’s manna is needed on Wednesday morning. Some things I want to keep because they’re beautiful, and some because they evoke memories. It turns out I’m loath to part with some objects because they stand in for absent loved ones. Maybe they weren’t meant to carry such heavy burdens.It looks like I’ve still got some sorting to do.[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][/et_pb_row][/et_pb_section]