I always knew memories were important. They hold the key to our past selves we may never again be able to access. They capture a lighter past in a dream-like quality that reality will never replicate. And yet, because I can remember, I have taken them for granted.
You will never feel this way until you see a sick person grapple with himself for memories that his mind and illness have denied him. You see that crease in their eyebrows, fingers lightly tapping the side of their skull to hopefully spark something that may long have extinguished. You see their lips opening and closing repeatedly in a helpless whisper where no words escape. The body responds faster than the mind can tell it not to.
You hear the hopeful prompts that may stir some recognition, and then click, something happens. The right word is said, the gears lock into place, and a memory bubbles to the surface. The ocean for them is only too deep.
I see his smile, so wide it can split the sky. He looks as if the universe has been granted to him and he is so unbelievably full of joy. This kind of happiness is so pure and so infectious and it fills me with such elation yet makes me want to cry.
Memories come so much more easily to so many of us, yet happiness escapes us. Maybe there is something in remembering.