As a child I remember scouring the shelves. Delving deep into the closets, boxes and trunks. I was always searching for something. Something that would tell the story of who I was and where I came from. Something that would help “all-of-this” make sense. I wanted stories of my past, of the past leading up to me and mostly I just wanted to find the secret. The secret that would unlock it all.
One day I found a baby book. It had a couple of notes in it but was mostly empty. I thought that this book had been my chance but that now I would never know. I felt keenly the loss of understanding. The missed opportunity. This empty book represented all that would be lost from me.
When I became a mother I wanted to give my children this understanding. To gift them with that something special that I never had. Each of my children have their own special book. These books tell a story and the story is that of their lives. I also am beginning a different kind of book. I will be asking my mother to write down the memories of her childhood, of her parents and her grandparents.
We need to preserve this history to pass down. If we do not do this it will be lost forever. I do not want my children to piece together an incomplete past the way that I have. I feel that the past is so important in understanding the present but that so much is lost. So much understanding is lost.