This post is about memory. About how critical it is to understanding family life, about how “wrong” it is, about how it differs so sharply from family member to family member. I use to put great stock in my recollections of my childhood. I used to recite narratives about what happened and what people said and who was responsible and even
why people did what they did, as if I had any access whatsoever to the why’s of other people’s actions, especially as a child. I used to tell these tales with fair confidence. They were true because I
remembered them. But I don’t do that so much anymore. Even when I’m explaining moments from my past to my therapist, I usually mention something about a grain of salt and not quite a grain of faith in my recollections. I don’t know if it’s feeling more and more like a grownup, or if it’s my exposure to my own kids’ narratives that occasion me to tell my tales with reservation, but I’m learning that family memories are a peculiar thing.
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Photo credit: Antique Garlic by Shari Weinsheimer
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