Saturday, 23 May 2009 9:17pm
This morning, as I was leaving the parental nest to head back to another week at the ‘Dale, I spied containers in the fridge and said “Thanks Dad, but I’m going vegetarian for a little while”. Dad replied, “Well that’s fine, just take a little spaghetti bolognaise”.
I’m still chuckling about it now, my lovable carnivorous pa.
So simple and yet so perfect. One snapshot of humour, one second of laughter, one instant where love and affection flood the deep waters of your soul.
This is what life really is, a collection of delicious and painful moments, memories so vivid and vibrant you can recall the exact scent of spring and the taste of tears on your tongue.
Like the time my mum apologised to the GPS for not listening and going the wrong way.
Or the time I was convinced the computer wasn’t working because we had failed to type the command ‘please’. (I was very young and polite, ok?)
Dad’s pre-piano exam speech, every year.
Standing in a pew at Jason Brown’s funeral.
The time an ex told me he felt that saying “I love you” too many times lessened its meaning.
The time I stayed up all night as my beloved bunny lay dying beside me.
The pride in mum’s voice as I received my first promotion.
Or when I left France.
The first kiss, the last breath, meeting someone for the first time, realising that goodbye is forever. Airports, sweetshops, clothing boutiques, kitchens and churches. Cakes and tea and coffee and sunshine and thunder. Moments which aren’t always beautifully picture-perfect, but moments so exhilarating or excruciating and essential that they are captured all the same. Moments with which you comfort or torture yourself as you grow old, and measure the success of your life.
Such aching power in reminiscence, such appreciation and embarrassment. I guess my only worry is to make sure I'm not so caught up in remembrance that I forget to make new memories.
If life is a veritable picture book, what do you want to look back and see?
