The Heart Remembers
The following is an adaptation of my story, “The Heart Remembers” originally published in “Monsoon Madness” (Oro Valley Writer’s Forum Anthology vol. 1)
When I was a child, I would help Mom and Grandma wrap empty one-pound coffee cans in foil, then fill them with bright pink and soft white Peonies from our back yard. On Memorial Day, We would take them to the cemetery and carefully place the bouquets on the gravesites of Grandpa and two of my mother’s siblings who had died in infancy. Through the years, the annual pilgrimage to the cementery faded like old Peony blossoms. I grew up, I moved away, I was too busy, I forgot.
Years later, after taking Mom home from a Memorial Day family gathering, I was helping put away groceries in her apartment in the assisted living complex. She was no longer driving, and was having more and more problems with memory.
“Debbie, can you take me to the cemetery? I want to put these flowers on my mom and dad’s grave.” She pointed to a potted plant she’s gotten as a door prize at a recent luncheon.
Her question took me by surprise. To be honest, in all of my efforts to entertain people over the holiday weekend I’d forgotten the memorial part. It was ironic that the one with memory issues was the one to remember this.
“Do you remember how to get there, Mom? I haven’t been since I was a kid.”
“Of course,” she said indignantly.
It soon became obvious that she didn’t. After several frustrating starts and stops, I resorted to using my phone’s GPS. When we finally reached Valley View, she lit up like a kid at Christmas.
“Oh look! This is so nice!” she exclaimed when she saw the American Flags flanking the road and placed on graves to honor men and women who have died in service to our country.
My heart sank as I looked past the flags to countless roads winding through the cemetery. How would we ever find the sites we had come to decorate?
“I think we should stop at the office to get a map or something,” I suggested.
“No, I know the way,” Mom said
Here we go again, I thought. But amazingly, road by road, turn by turn, Mom navigated us with centainty.
“Stop here!” she exclaimed. “This is it.”
She jumped out of th car and started up a small hill clutching the pot of flowers. I followed behind, fully expecting to have to start the hunt all over again. When I got to the top of the hill, there was Mom standing in front of the family gravesites. After lovingly placing the flowers she began to recall stories of her family and events from her past. I let the stories fill me, no longer in a hurry to rush home.
As the stories ended, we made our way back to Mom’s apartment where I got her settled for the week. I knew we had a long road ahead of us, but for today she had found her way. She had found her memories. As I helped her place medictions in the plastic pill box labeled with the days of the week, I wondered about things forgotten and things remembered. I thought back to what the doctor had said about the mystery surrounding memory loss.
“It seems,” she said, “that shallow memories are often forgotten by the brain first, but the things that are closest to us, deep in our souls, these are the things the heart remembers.”
I gave my mother a hug before leaving, hanging on longer than I usually do. This day, this memory, this time with my mother…this my heart will remember.
Threads of Thought
Author’s Note: Memorial Day, originally known as Decoration Day is set aside to honor women and men who have died in service to our country. Growing up in the midwest, our family tradition was to visit the cemetery on Memorial Day to remember those who were no longer with us.
