I like to tell my children two facts to dazzle them with proof of my advancing years:
1. I was born (slightly) before humans went to the moon, and;
2. Three-quarters of my life (and most of its most significant events) came before social media.
Of these two facts, it’s the latter that my kids find most shocking, because a life without social media — without a digital trail of your every move, just a click away— feels more alien to them than a trip to space.
Most of the hard proof of my existence is analog, not digital. It’s photos and memorabilia, and it’s scarce and scattered. It’s shoved, out of order, into photo albums and shoeboxes and slide carousels. It’s hidden in cupboards and cabinets and basements. It’s gathering dust in mysterious undeveloped rolls of film in a junk drawer. It’s falling out of yearbooks, along with pressed flowers and notes whose importance I’ve forgotten (although they were important enough for 16-year-old me to keep them forever, certain that middle-aged me would remember and be impressed).
It’s easy to ignore analog memories. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t look at it. Hide that photo. Pack away the yearbook. If I don’t think of them, the memories stay hidden and unconfronted. Many exist nowhere but in my mind. And memories, I’m all too aware, are tenuous things. Keep them hidden too long, and they may well fade or get lost forever…much like an old Polaroid fades, its image slipping away.
The digital world, though, doesn’t let things slip away. We trip over the memories it throws in our path, unbidden and out of context. It’s not the shoebox hidden under the bed; it’s Pandora’s Box opened in front of the world.
I was reminded of this last week when Facebook showed me what I was doing eleven years ago. Memories from that far back don’t usually pop up in my timeline; back in my early social media days, I didn’t post much, unless it was something really important. And this had been important: my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. We’d spent it at White Point Beach Resort on Nova Scotia’s south shore. The early October days had been warm enough for my kids, then just two and four, to play in the ocean. My parents happily spent hours with them on the beach, sharing stories and making memories.
The picture that popped up in my timeline was sweet: a photo of the two most important females in my life — my mother and my daughter — walking on the sand, backs to the camera, marching purposefully toward an adventure. In this photo, Daisy is a lively little strawberry-blond girl whose biggest problem in life is figuring out which Disney princess is her favourite. She is walking next to my mother: a tall, vibrant redhead, intently telling Daisy stories and secrets.
The photo took my breath away. It took me by the shoulders and forced me to acknowledge how much things have changed in eleven years. When it popped into my timeline, I’d just returned from visiting my parents for their 61st wedding anniversary. When I visit my mother these days, I note the repetition, the lost memories, the uncertain questions about how old Daisy and Puck are and what they are doing. I notice that my parents’ house is not as well cared for as it used to be, and that my mother doesn’t want to leave the house, at all. I see that the brilliant red hair is faded to silver-streaked copper. I note all these things, but I hold them at arms-length. I don’t’ look at them too closely. She is, I tell myself, 81. We are all getting older. That’s all it is. Nothing has changed, so much.
But this photo. More than anything in the last five years, it’s forced me to look at what’s happened to her – to us. Even more than that time, five years ago, when my parents were going away and she showed up at my house with twelve loaves of half-eaten, partly-moldy bread for ‘safekeeping’. Even more than two Christmases ago, when she gave 12-year-old Daisy a size 4T sweater. Even more than the several times she’s confused me with her late sister-in-law, calling me by her name and giving me the cold shoulder because they never got along well.
This photo forces me to look at the before and after. I am jolted by the realization of how much she’s failed in just eleven years, how quickly dementia has pulled at the threads of both her mental and physical self, loosening the weave that held her together. She is a faded Polaroid of who she once was. I am struck by how willfully I haven’t looked at it.
I show the photo to Daisy, asking her if she remembers that day. She cocks her head to the side and thinks.
‘I remember getting in bed with Nana and Papa early in the morning,” she tells me. “Papa was snoring. But Nana told me stories. She told me the story of little Red Riding Hood.”
I smile, picturing my redheads sharing that story in the dawn hours.
Daisy wrinkles her nose at the photo. “I was all in pink,” she says. “I was such a girly-girl.”
Daisy sees little in common with the tiny girl on the beach. She doesn’t like pink anymore. She’s known for a while that she’d rather find a princess than a prince. She barely recognizes herself in the photo. I, though, see her, still. I will always recognize her, as my soul recognized her’s the first time I held her and looked into her eyes. She’s the same, though grown. The photo shows her walking eagerly toward adventure. She’s well on the path, now.
Daisy doesn’t recognize my mother, either. She doesn’t really remember a time when my mother was lively and ready to go for walks and adventures. She only remembers the more fragile, uncertain grandmother.
My mother, too, is still there, although it’s harder to recognize her. As the bright red hair fades, I feel her essence is fading, too. Who she was in this photo is disappearing like a footprint in the sand. It’s only the memories that will preserve the way she was. I’ve been hesitant to look at those memories. I see now that I have to look and to remember before it all fades – before time and tide shift it all, and rub it out altogether.