I wanted to be a pop singer when I was a child. Man, I loved to sing. I participated in chorus at school. I sang in choir at church. I took voice lessons. And piano lessons. I fell in love. The love endures, though the dream died as I got older. It’s still fun to drum up some of that dusty, deeply hidden imagination though. Partly because I can smile thinking how unrealistic it really was - thanks though, mom, for that karaoke machine I could record my voice on. I sure did love the hell out of that thing.

I’m a grown woman now, long-since relegating imagination to trail far behind in the rearview, and instead, shifting gears into reality. But, this is just one instance of my former, youthful (invincible) self. I haven’t entirely forgotten the version of me with tight-rolled, stone-washed jeans, teased bangs and clothes three sizes too big for me. Or the version as an ‘adult’ but still making poor life decisions despite being old enough to be entirely responsible for myself?

Big picture memories? Oh sure, I can remember quite a few. Definitely some through a blurry haze of distance and time (and alcohol). Details within the memories? Much fewer.

Too many memories loosen and fall to a place I often cannot retrieve them. I find I don’t frequently stretch the elastic bands of these memory muscles for a number of different reasons. I tell myself it’s because I don’t habitually get the chance to reminisce with those who helped make up these memories. Life is busier than I ever thought possible. And does, in fact, end up going by way too damn fast.

You’ve seen the movie, Inside Out? Our brain’s archival system is astoundingly complex (and be it a child’s cartoon, the movie is still remarkably adept at stripping this complexity down into digestible pieces), and with a retrieval process that varies to a great degree depending on the person. I have several high school girlfriends that regularly pull information from over 20 years ago out of their minds like we lived it yesterday. Thank god some of us were blessed with the gift of remembering, so they can carry the rest of us as we continue to forget.

Are the ‘lost’ memories gone forever, downgraded and discarded into the old ‘memory dump’ with abandon? Or are they just outside of arm’s reach, patiently awaiting rediscovery? Why do some memories hold more weight than others, some seeming farther away than those that, at the time, feel easily forgettable?

This brings me to the story of tonight. I lay in bed, unable to surrender to sleep, despite feeling heavy with fatigue, when I abruptly feel a strong sense of a summer evening upon me. It’s literally eight degrees outside with a low of -5 this particular night in the Twin Cities. I’m in shorts and a tee shirt, one leg atop the comforter and overcome in my mind with the thrumming chorus coming from crickets outside, heard through windows open to the cooler night air. The scent of freshly cut grass wafts its way in while a tiny, white box fan blows, satisfying my need for white noise to fall asleep to. Memories surface. I’m back in my childhood home, in the pink-painted room with red carpeting, once displaying a strip of pastel ABCs around it’s interior perimeter. I sleep on a metal-framed daybed with a pullout trundle below (extremely convenient for adolescent sleepovers). Furniture found many placement alterations throughout my residency in this room, though this night in particular, my bed stood directly beneath the bedroom’s rectangular, double windows that looked out onto the front yard. Nature hummed just through the window screens. Every evening creature singing lullaby-like songs, keeping their watch over the moon and stars while I sleep.

It was fleeting. But it’s presence wasn’t about its length. I lived this reality every day for years, but my mind is far removed from these childhood moments. Not through conscious choice, but because my mind is occupied spinning its wheels on the here and now. Likely, walking with my husband and our dog down Pine Street over the holidays in my hometown resuscitated this once obscure memory. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter why. But I’m smart enough to know to be grateful for the gift, because that’s exactly what it was.

There’s beauty here. Though it isn’t a pleasant thought, losing bits and pieces of my life. Yes, I’d love to keep them all (the happy and the sad/mad/bad), packed away in labeled drawers so I know where to look next time I’m searching for one. But even my organization skills aren’t robust enough to tackle this task. And that’s ok. Because this same thing will happen many more times throughout the days and weeks and hopefully years I have left in this life. I’ll be conducting some part of my day when my brain decides to share a memory with me I’d long forgotten. Or perhaps it will happen in conversation with a friend, or while reading a book. It’s like discovering hidden treasure. Because to me, that’s exactly what they are. Buried but now rediscovered treasures. Even if it is only finding one at a time and every so often.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

From The Sound of Silence, Song by Simon & Garfunkel