I believe that memory is a living thing, alive inside of me making me who I am just as much as any part of this present moment.
I believe that memory is the experience of 30 seconds ago when I sprinkled salt over the bowl as Dave stirred the potato salad, and the experience of 10 years ago when Lucy fell out of that bed at the beach and wound up with stitches above her left eye. I believe that memory is my father’s presence with me every one of the days in the seventeen years since he died, and my grandparents’ too. Memory is the pull-tab on the grape soda from the machine at the neighborhood pool of my childhood, and the smell of damp earth through open windows in the springtime.
If this moment – the one that’s already gone a thousand times over by the time I’ve finished typing this sentence – is so unbelievably fleeting, and the future has yet to manifest, then it seems I am made up of memory. I like to think of it like bread, rising in a bowl on the counter; the memories are the yeast or the starter, and the whole loaf is this life.