::this is a memory::

After my grandfather passed away, my mom's brothers and sisters gathered at my grandparents' home in LA to go through some boxes of old stuff. I sat there amongst the five of them, each of us surrounded by piles of the contents of all those boxes, and listened to their conversations as you'd expect a seventh grader to do. Even at that age I could feel their closeness, the heaviness they shared from losing their father. While I also mourned the only grandfather I ever knew, I also understood that what was happening in that room was very much an adult experience, and since I had yet to have many of those, I absorbed it all very quietly. As I looked around the room, I saw my aunts and uncles holding stacks of photographs, lots and lots of photographs taken by my grandpa, and what has stuck with me for so many years is the memory of one of them saying 'ya know, I used to get so annoyed with Dad for always stopping us to take pictures, but now I wouldn't trade any of these memories for anything.'

When I told Eric that story, it hit home with him too. One cold winter night a little more than a year ago, we were all locked in for the night, cozy and warm in our 615 square foot condo, when Eric jumped up from his study spot at our dining room table. He grabbed the camera and started taking pictures of every room, exclaiming (very happily) 'this is a memory, this is a memory!' Looking back, I think that's the moment we realized that our condo was home; that's when Eric felt overcome with needing to capture 'home' in a picture, to always remember it.

I'll never forget that -- my sweet Eric in love with our home, his adorable statement 'this is a memory,' and the relief I felt knowing that I would always have a picture (well, lots of them actually) to remind me of that moment, just in case.

My memory is a selective one, one that I can't figure out. It will lock away a big event like my sister's high school graduation and her speech as valedictorian. It can recall specific details of when Eric and I saw each other for the first time after his year in Tokyo: the way the sun felt on my shoulders while I waited for him to arrive outside the restaurant, what each of us wore, the unexpected calm I felt when we hugged, and what I ordered to eat. Some little things are safe too, like the night my sister and I got the giggles so bad at dinner with my parents that my mom made us leave the table, and my dad joining us in the waiting area a few moments later with tears of laughter in his eyes too. I remember ordering Pizza Hut's New York Style pizza and root beer every Thursday night with my best friend Andrea while we studied for our Friday Global Studies quiz in high school.

Another thing I'll never forget: the panic, the embarrassment, the horror I felt when I had to ask Eric to tell me about the first time we kissed. And then again when I also had to have him remind me about the first time we told each other 'I love you.' Apparently my memory did not select these to store away. Thankfully I have a husband that has a better memory (for certain things, for these things) than I do, and I'm very lucky that while he may have been a little hurt that I had to ask, he understands that it's out of my control. And of course, it all came back to me once he reminded me, but still (!) I had to ask!

I'm glad that we've started taking more pictures. But I am still afraid of forgetting. I'm really, very afraid of forgetting all of the important things, big and small. A picture can't tell me about a stifling hot night in a small Eugene apartment and the sweetness of a long awaited touch or the smell of the beach in a dark room and the life-changing words that were spoken. What about the dinner that we made every week for two months because we couldn't get enough of it, and then the one that we moved on to next, and the one after that? Is there a picture to remind me to make our loved-but-forgotten obsessions again?

I have a great life and I've never been happier than right now. As Eric often says, each day is a gift. I want to keep these little gifts safe, in a way that isn't as unpredictable as my memory. I just have to remember to put them here :)