I know what that line means now.
You see I am one of the few (two) who even remembers some things. Events, the foundations of holiday traditions and classic family stories. These shared memories are precious — not just because of their contents, but also for the dwindling number of people who were there.
Who remember. Who still care.
It is a strange, awful, lonesome place to be… one of the few (two) living souls left who can (and like to) recall people, places, gatherings and old stories. Who will care to hear new insights. Who knew the principles involved. Who can remember the very day. Who will want to share the memory with you, taking pleasure in it as you do. Who can still, even now, be counted on to add another detail, a little bit more to the story.
Being here brings such an ache for the person, the place, the past — an ache that can never be eased. This kind of pain deserves to leave a visible scar but never does. Anyone looking at you has no idea that on the inside you’re wounded as badly as a person can be.
Comes with the territory I guess. Part of the package.
Going forward, I know the best I can hope for is to be grateful for the few who remain to share the memories. To care about the dream you had last night. To mark an upcoming birthday or anniversary. To remember and mourn with you. I will keep sharing (and defiantly take pleasure in) these memories as often as I can, knowing that at some point I’ll be alone — all that’s left of those times.
As much as it cuts you in two, it’s also a testament to the person, the place, the past.