Library of Memories

The practice of scrapbooking life’s moments

Lately I’ve been collecting memories.

Something has shifted for me this past year. I can’t put my finger on exactly when all the pieces of my new paradigm slipped into place, but last night I saw it with startling clarity. Like moving to a new house, spending weeks unpacking boxes and moving the furniture around; then one day you walk into the living room, look around and know, finally, everything is in its right place. This is your new home.

I was talking to my father on the phone because it was his 82nd birthday. He lives on the opposite coast from me, so I called to wish him a happy.

I don’t get to talk to my father nearly as often as I talk to my mother. He’s busy, and not really a phone kind of person. If I hear his voice once a month, I’m doing well. We’ve always been close, but ever since I moved out of state, I’ve missed having real time with him, regular infusions of connection that I took for granted throughout my first 23 years. I’ve lived far away and missed that for more years than I ever had it, so I really relish our talks and visits when they come along.

But last night my appreciation of having him to myself on the phone had a different feel to it.

I sat on the wooden planks of our deck, gazing into the deepening, velvety darkness of a southern night as it gathered between the trees in our woods, watching fireflies dance their lazy loops like slow night magic, the phone pressed to my ear. My father’s voice was lively, clear, full of energy and enthusiasm. A swift stream of words spilled out of him, descriptions of food, people, places, a story from his college years, political commentary and speculation about the future. There was nothing “old” about the entire conversation. He could’ve been 25, or 40, or 68 — no sign of slowing down or diminishment for all the years he was celebrating.

Joy and wonder and the certainty of how precious this would one day be swirled around me for that 30-minute phone call. I kept thinking: I want to keep this forever. I want to always remember this summer night, the sound of his…

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