There is an old woman I know who tells me stories of her broken babies and bitter memories. I haven’t seen her in a while, so I’m not sure how fabricated my memories are of her.
I remember her frail silhouette looming over her crafts, her tea and biscuits, and her running mind. The bustling city backdrop is… well, disconnected with her little world. I guess that her past and the bitter memories might be one of the few things she has left to hold onto.
Memory is powerful.
Human beings become immortal because of memory. The more we recount our stories, the more we fabricate our memories.
But all stories are true, even if only some are factual.
I pride myself in being present-oriented. (I’m an ISFP… so that helps).
I wonder if the true art of being present is to hold the present and future in a delicate balance on the palms of your hands, feeling the weight, pain, and beauty of both, and whispering, “Thank you.”
I want to remember the old woman and her stories about her broken babies and bitter memories. I want to remember the texture of her skin and the tone of her soft, fierce voice. I want her to be immortal… not just for me, but for the entire world. I’m scared she’ll be forgotten. I’m scared I’ll forget her.
I am a storyteller. For the sake of immortality and mortality; for the sake of old women with stories of broken babies and bitter memories; for the sake of remembering and forgetting; and for the sake of honoring those I love, I will keep on storytelling.