I turn on the lovely red lamp over my piano to play a tune or two, and I think of him. I pick up my Edgar Allan Poe book, and I think of him. I hear Tchaikovsky, and I think of him. I teach a class, and I think of him.
My amazement at these memories grows stronger as I grow older. How is it that his influence still nurtures my life? And, for the most part, we spent our grown up lives apart from one another.
It gives me great cause to think of my own children and wondering what they will remember five years after my own death? Will poems and stories surface for them? Will something catch their eye such as a sunset or a sunrise, and they will think of me?
Well, it is something to ponder for all of us. How is it for you? How do your memories hold up from those you have loved and lost?
|Matthew and Jonah listening to my stories by lantern light.|