The reality that I am the only survivor in my birth family challenges me in different ways. My younger brother, Ben, joined my parents in the afterlife in early August of this year. I acknowledged that I was the last branch on the family tree, but my recently acquired “narrowed reality” sneaks up on me sometimes.
Growing up, I was comfortable asking my grandmother and her mother questions about family history, recipes, or how to remove stubborn stains. I never considered that there would be a time when neither of them would be alive. My Grandmother was my Go To person for information for almost six decades. My mother inherited the role of family historian after her mother died. She answered my questions about my ancestors for another ten years until I was in my early 70’s. In a pinch, I emailed my brother but he seldom remembered family dynamics and could not understand why I was interested in tracking down old news.
Tonight I was curious about the sequence of an emotionally complicated family event that happened a long time ago. Nobody in my family was around to clarify or add their perceptions. I fantasized about programming Siri, the disembodied voice that answers questions on my iphone, to answer my personal questions about historical family events.
A few days ago, I struggled to remember the name of the Labrador retriever that adopted us when I was in junior high school. He used to eat the brownies I made directly from the pan. I remembered what he looked like and even how he smelled. I remember the sound his tail made when he wagged it and hit the wall. Yet I could not remember his name. My memory felt constipated. Later in the day I remembered his name—Shadow—but the details of how he adopted us and what happened to him had disappear from my memory.
This morning I tried to remember where the origin of the long, gray knitted Christmas stockings that hung from the fireplace each Christmas Eve. I remembered that my name was embroidered in bright red yarn on the top and for years the stocking was taller than I was! When I closed my eyes, I scrunched my nose as I remembered the slightly moldy smell.
Later I shared with friends my dilemma about where to go for clarification about family events now that I am the sole survivor. I explained that I was in the process of writing about my challenge and the writing itself seemed to be working me by bringing up even more half digested memories. They nodded their heads and sympathized with me. Later I wondered if they were being confronted with a similar experience.
I am not sure why the missing information feels important to me but it does. I want to know. I desire to remember the details clearly—not because I am writing a book or for any specific reason except the fullness of memory.
Knitting feels like an apt metaphor. When I was in second grade, I remember dropping countless stitches when I first learned how to knit. I dreaded pulling out the completed rows or maneuvering the small yellow crochet needle with my clumsy, little girl hands. Missing pieces of memories feel like dropped stitches out of time.
My grandchildren pepper me with their own family questions whenever we are together. I enjoy their curiosity and I encourage them to use me as a family encyclopedia. I smile as I keep track of their questions:
How come your Grandfather’s name was “Bompie?”
What was his real name before you nicknamed him Bompie?
Did he really have no hair all his life?
How much did your Grandmother get paid to work in a drug store?
Weren’t there child labor laws when you worked with her when you were nine years old?
Who taught you how to make a frappe?
Why was Industrial Arts called that when you were in high school?
I encourage them to ask questions while I am alive because I wished that I had asked more questioned and written answers and memories. I was not prepared to be the last branch on the family tree. Sometimes I bump into a void where there used to be part of a story. And yes, I realize that I am aging and aches and pains and forgetfulness is part of the aging process. Then I sigh and appreciate that longing is connected to belonging and belonging is connected to family history.
At least for this moment, I am content to belong to the present while acknowledging that I have forgotten some of the past. Perhaps not being able to remember is like grief that sneaks up unexpectedly and leaves no visible trail. Yet I am grateful to my ancestors and the memories that we share.
