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  • Fran Braga Meininger

The Memories I May Never Completely Remember


It’s August and it’s raining. That’s rare here, but it happens. And every time it does, I find myself engulfed in this overwhelming sense of contentment. It’s not, however, a feeling anchored in the present, but delivered by a memory that I can’t quite recall.


Satin smooth air wafting past my face and the scent of dry grass, refreshed by the storm, awakens something so special, a hint of a time and place to which I can never return but remember fondly in the recesses of my mind.


It’s a vague comprehension of a time long ago. When it rained, on a hot day, when the grass was dry from the summer sun and the air was filled with its fragrance, a confusing combination of wet and dry, cool, yet sultry, the scent of a world in flux. Perhaps, it was a time as a young adult when the storm outside lifted, allowing me to step out from the one brewing within, a time as a young girl, learning my way and my place in a world that felt too big for someone so small.


I reach into the cloudiness of the memory to extract some tiny detail to explain what was happening, how I was changing and why. But it eludes me and stays just beyond what I can make out, like a tree in a dense fog lit by the rising sun, taking on abstract shapes as I approach from the distance, not knowing for sure if it’s safe.


I want to know the source of this satisfying feeling. It’s alluring and my desire to relive it is strong.


My mind reasons through endless possibilities, wondering if it be might be a memory from a childhood birthday, that’s in August, perhaps it rained one year. I strain to recall. But can’t.


Could it have been a summer of my young adult life, when I was struggling to find my foundation as an energetic and ambitious woman, searching for love and acceptance, inexperienced but eager to try out my new self and jump headlong into any adventure, some that turned out better than the others, all with lessons I’m still learning.


I honestly don't know. But I stay immersed in it, allowing its touch to reach me again and again, disappointed by my inability to name it, but grateful for its emotions.


I wonder how often I have missed out on moments like this, hesitant to look back into the past, fearing the memory will be accompanied by regret and sorrow of moments lost and people long gone. I wonder if there is a way to adjust one's perspective to welcome the fondness, along with the bittersweet, and hold them both in gratitude for a life fully lived.


As I wonder, the feeling fades. It’s as though attempting to distinguish it, offends its intentions. It comes to me, only as a pleasure, as a time of innocent beginnings and of inevitable ends, simultaneously sharing the present before I step again into the future.


I vow to accept it as it is, a vague and shapeless innuendo, a reminder to savor the sensations of life as it is, and to be content and simply hold as precious the memories I may never completely remember.



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