Keeper of Memories

My mom lost her big sister yesterday.

One of the first things that occurred to me as I processed this news is that my mom is the last of her siblings to still be with us.

This is an astounding thought. To be the last in the family remaining.

And, looking at our family tree, the last of her generation.

This fact brings into closer focus the idea of family history. And of personal history. Of stories. And of memories.

Because I have thought so often about what we leave behind when our time on this earth is over.

Mostly, I think, what remains are the memories people have of us.

I think about how my mother has no memory of her parents because her father died while she was in utero, and her mother, when she was a toddler.

All of my mother’s “memories” of her parents are second-hand. Constructed from stories, and not even supplemented by photos (because the Japanese occupation in WWII made it so all photographic evidence of her parents were wiped from existence).

To think that she alone carries these second-hand stories, along with the rest of her family's history before any of the next generation came to be, is staggering.

It makes me think of my own unique memories, especially those I share with others.

I think about my own relationship with my brother Melvin, who was closest to me in age. And how we shared experiences that only involved the two of us.

And how I felt the burden of being the keeper of certain memories when he died.

I felt the same when my childhood best friend died in 2020… soon followed by my first ever boyfriend just weeks later.

When you lose someone, you feel the responsibility of keeping their memory alive. You think that there are certain parts of their life that only you know, and it doesn’t even really matter how small those parts were in the person’s life. They feel important somehow.

You become acutely aware that, yes, this person walked this earth. Yes, they touched my life. Yes, I loved them.

When Melvin died, my mother and I flew to the Philippines to be with his kids and my siblings. I remember gathering everyone around as we sat in vigil at the funeral home. I encouraged us all to share stories about my brother.

What stories were told! My siblings and I told stories of his boyhood and young adulthood. How he was a daredevil who liked to live dangerously.

His children told us stories of him as a father. What a strict disciplinarian he was.

And we all agreed that he loved three things equally: music, animals, and a good time.

Together, we lovingly pieced together a complex, beautiful picture of an imperfect but well-loved man.

And when we were tired of telling stories, our hearts were full of love for him. And for each other.

Through the telling of stories, our mutual love for him bonded us.

Such is the power of stories.

And so, when Mike died, I assumed, among other things, the role of memory conservator and docent. Because of our children’s youth, I have felt compelled to remind our children of who Mike was in the telling and re-telling of stories.

Remarkably, but not surprisingly, they have had stories of their own to share.

They, too, are memory keepers.

This is what I think of when people die.

That, above all else, we owe it to them to tell their stories.

Because this is how we know that they lived. That they walked alongside us. And that they touched our hearts and our lives, even if only in a small way.

While I mourn the loss of my aunt this week, my heart also feels heavy for my mom.

I know that I will be asking her to tell us stories. And yes, I will be telling some of my own.

Me with my Mama (left) and my aunt Reby (right)