My memoires2/28/2023 ![]() ![]() Me, sitting on the little sofa that barely fit between the walls. Many times, we sat together in her room holding hands. “I’m going to California on a business trip,” I’d tell her. Our conversations were warm and usually brief. I saw her often at the assisted living facility where she lived. My mother, who suffered from dementia, spent the last few years of her life remembering very little. There are many memories I’d like to forget, but there are hundreds more that are fresh enough to make me smile. And the horrible, we hope, teach us to be better human beings and bring empathy into our hearts. With them we are guided through tomorrow, the next day, the day after that, and every day thereafter. Without our memories we would, of course, be lost. Do memories turn into lies? Hopefully, not intentionally and not too often. Whether good or bad, benign, or sublime, we are the victors, telling tales to ourselves in the exact ways we want them recorded in our minds. Memories are our histories written in the first-person. For her to acknowledge that she lived that sort of life was simply too painful. While I was disappointed with her response, I was not surprised. At one point in the conversation I said, “He hit me often.” My mother was incredulous, denying that any acts of violence ever took place in our home. After his passing, I confronted my mother about his cruelty. Whatever my father was taught in the military (he worked in an Army Hospital as a dental assistant), he was not taught kindness. Memories are affected by our environment. ![]() I don’t know why, but it is etched in my mind. If tomorrow I am asked to swear this memory is true, I would swear in the affirmative. Nonetheless, 63 years later, and better informed about men’s attire, I see it as clearly as the Empire State Building on a sunny day - my father, standing in the doorway in his Eisenhower jacket, his hat tilted to one side, the door wide open, kissing my mother goodbye. I was only two at the time, but I’m fairly certain I would not have known the difference between a military uniform and a sweat suit. My guess would be to a meeting of some sort, perhaps with the Jewish War Veterans, a group my father likely would have joined. It was 1959 and Dad was a WWII veteran who served in the Pacific. My earliest memory is the sight of my father in his army uniform leaving our home in Elmont, New York. Whether it happened or not, who wouldn’t want a memory like that. As we were about to part, likely never to see each other again, she said, “Promise me you’ll never change. Details are few, but I remember walking, talking, holding hands and, somewhere that evening, a kiss. The second night of the convention, after all the activities were over, we snuck out of the synagogue to be alone. We spent a lot of time together, more time than I ever spent with a girl before. I don’t recall her face, although I do remember her brown eyes, her wavy black hair, and the gold Star of David that hung loosely around her neck. However, one weekend while attending a Jewish youth convention, I met a girl who seemed to find me interesting. When I was thirteen, I was not very popular. Some memories take us to dark places, while others provide comfort when needed, helping us to feel better about ourselves. We tend to choose what we want to remember, often embellish the good things, and repress or minimize the things that trouble our minds. ![]()
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