Remembering

Later that afternoon, my brother and I drove my father and stepmother out to the Whitney cemetery in what used to be the corner of a family farm. My mother is buried there next to her parents — and now her beloved brother. It had been frigidly cold earlier in the day for the graveside service, so we thought it was wise to take my father there once things warmed up a bit and the pathways softened. At 85, my father doesn’t move with the easy assuredness of his younger days, but he resents being told he shouldn’t try. So we went. Watching my father walk between the gravestones brought back a flood of unanticipated memories long buried under the busyness of life and, perhaps, the fear of the sadness and regrets that they might rekindle. The past doesn’t really step aside for new memories — it merely travels alongside them more muted than before.

As I watch our students move through the seasons of childhood and adolescence, I often wonder what they will remember and what they will forget. Will friendships or family prove to be the echo that keeps their past within reach? Or will they rely on individual accomplishments to mark their life stories? If they are lucky, they will recognize early on that relationships, even though these are sometimes fraught, will sustain and nourish them in ways that the solitude of success never does.

In the evening, we joined my aunt and cousins for dinner at a local restaurant, sharing more stories, crying a little, and laughing a lot. My uncle would have been slightly embarrassed by the attention but thrilled that we were all together, never forgetting what he had taught us.

JWB