Looking up my Past

 When I think of these long-ago people or events, I realize all I have is memories that are unclear and incomplete.  But, for instance, in the case of Milton Grenbaum, I know he was important because my father never said a bad word about him.  My father revered him.  Who he really was is unknown by me.  I see him only through my father’s eyes.  The same with the Hills.  I know them only through my parents’ eyes.  I loved them because they were young and pretty and very carefully faithful to my parents’ opinion of them.  So, my memories are second hand, and makable.  Even my own memories are dependent on who I thought I was at the time, and who I am now.  They never entirely mesh.  

What is memory?  It is unreliable, changeable and easy to distort.  I feel one way one day and another at a different time.  I am changing.  Not necessarily for the better but changing all the same.  So, what purpose have these memories?  Not reality, but what I have remembered after so many years, and some people were memorable, and others are not.  I can see many feelings that I do not put a name to.  Others pop up unbidden.  I hope my thoughts are relevant, but I know they are not accurate.  And that is okay.  I need not be accurate, only true to what I feel at that moment.

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