Sunday, November 7, 2021


a poppy for Melrose, 
made by Pops
My granddaughter reminds me of my daughter, and somehow my mother too. I was sure there was an old photo of me at her age (with my mother) that would prove the family resemblance. I finally found it and...not so much: another reminder that memory is reconstructive.  

Searching for that photo reconnected me with other photos, with smudged handwritten letters, with artifacts, all imbued with other memories and past relationships long lost. These symbols quickly evoke, elicit, inspire memory and imagination. They're powerful: I cannot see a badger hair shaving brush and not think of my Dad.

Someday will my granddaughter go through these objects too, and what will she construct about me? Will she find me in a book? Or in a film? A toy? A favourite candy? A song? My flat cap? A drawing? Maybe the garden poppies? 

I don't get to decide, do I? She will reconstruct me anew, but I will be intentional and leave all the breadcrumbs I can, so that she can find her way back to me, forever, and she will never feel alone.  

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