Fleeting Memories

Dropped the youngest off at school this morning and during the walk down through the back lane, he was talking about memories of doing this from when he was little. There used to be a donkey at one of the houses, and he’d feed him longer grass that was out of reach of the creature’s neck. We speculated where that donkey was now, and how he came to be there. 

Dropping the boys off at school is one of those things that’s special to me. I've never had a memory palace like Sherlock Holmes, nor perfect retention. I’ve always been strong at remembering facts and processes and systems, but people and events are hard, more often shadows and wisps of impression and sensation.

I don’t really remember being dropped off at school by my Mum. I do remember visiting the corner shop by Mosspits Lane with her after school and buying 1:72 Airfix soldiers. I’ve an amalgamation of memories of walking into school at the Hermitage CP in Holmes Chapel, but not directly of my Mum. And yet she was ever-present, the constant in my life at that time as my father felt much more distant as he was often at work because of the work ethic he was brought up with and to keep us in the standard he and Mum had set.

The memories are what remain, and they’re precious and fleeting. One can never be certain what happens when you pass on, but while people remember you, you’ve never truly left.

15 September 2020