Remembering After

Many people place emphasis on remembering the day something happens. The day a child a is born. The day we win a game. The day we lose someone we love. The day we are attacked. The day we go into battle.

We have days marked on our calendars. Days with stars. Days with sad faces. Days with happy faces. Days with black marks. Days with red marks. We have days to remember.

And these days are important. They are important to religious people. They are important to patriotic people. They are important to mothers. They are important to fathers. They should be remembered. They should be recognized. I know. And I do.

But what about after the important day happens? What then? What happens in the story of these peoples' lives? What do they remember about those days?

I remember the days after my marriage. I remember flying to my new home in a new country. I remember celebrating with the people in the plane. I remember meeting my husband's friends. I remember the extreme loneliness of starting over without friends I had cultivated. I remember learning how to cross stitch with a lady who had lupus who was much older than me. I remember being so lonely I walked through a screen door in excitement when my husband arrived home from work. I remember my husband teaching me to drive. I remember driving off in anger, after a fight, many times, only to return with a loaf of bread and a willingness to start again. I remember all the emotions. The fights. The fun. The laughter. The sorrow. The happiness. I remember all the hills and valleys of our marriage after that special day. I remember them and celebrate the years we've been together.

I remember the days after my baby was born. I remember dealing with a lactation expert, the friends who brought me food and posted signs in my yard to celebrate her homecoming. I remember people teaching me how to take a shower while my daughter watched from her little car seat in the bathroom. I remember freaking out about bread dough stuck to my countertop and desperately trying to scrape it off while my girl wailed in the living room. I remember the sheer agony of trying to leave behind my desire to be orderly and neat so I could be the mother I had to be. I remember being imperfect, flawed, scared. I remember other mothers sharing their fears. I remember the days after. They are the days that shaped my motherhood.

I remember losses. I remember many sad days. I remember the pain of dealing with all the living personalities long after we buried our loved ones. I remember anger. I remember fights. I remember good words. I remember bad words. I remember wishing the bad words had never been spoken either by me or by them. I remember hoping that time would truly heal all wounds. I remember gauzing over the pain again. I remember feeling forgiveness. I remember renewed connections. These are the memories that shape my failures, my struggle to grow from them, and my continued desire to improve as a person.

I remember the big days. The huge days that impact all of our lives. The natural disasters. The recoveries. The atrocities. The victories. I remember them all. I remember them as an individual. As a wife. As a friend. As a daughter. As a mother. I remember grieving for my nation. For the world.  I remember that it is in the days afterward that we are forging the path toward a new memory. A new beginning. A brighter future.

It is in the living. The going forward. The willingness to take risks. The capacity to forgive. The desire to forget. The hope that tomorrow will be a better day. That is why we remember. We remember so we will remember that we are able to move on.