Memory defines who we are. It keeps track of how many times we have had to glue our hearts back again. It knows where our scars are, it knows our regrets, and our accomplishments. It stores every lesson we’ve learned with each mistake committed. It tells our story; it’s the key to our past.

I remember watching a movie with my dad about a girl who had to take care of her father because he had Alz Heimer. And I recall my dad saying “That’s tough”. Well, I guess now he has to take care of his mother. And I know it breaks his heart when she says she has such a bad memory, or when she keeps asking the same thing over and over again. The fact that she asked three times where he was born, also hurts him. How can a mother not remember where she gave birth to her first child? Alz-Heimer is the only reason I can think of. And she should have a good memory because she reads all the time; she just loves to read. When she reads, she’s working on her memory. Why isn’t that work paying off? That’s simply not fair; but well, not many things in life are fair.

Sometimes I wish I could forget many things in my life, things that are too painful. But if I forget about them, I forget my story. I’d forget to be strong, to be grateful, to be wise, to be everything I need to be. So I am grateful for memory. And even though reading isn’t working for my grandma, I’ll keep doing it because memory is the path to my essence.


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