Keepers of the Memories

Oscar Wilde said, "Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us." Events that shape and change our lives this time of the year are rich with nostalgia. There seems to be a lot of beginnings and endings in the ceremonies and rituals.
On Memorial Day, I made my annual trek to the cemetery to decorate the graves of my family and friends who have died. I walked the grass aisle separating the rows of granite markers dated 1949 until I found my mother's name. She was 48 when she died. I thought she was 48 "years old." I was grateful that she lived until I could take care of myself. I was ten and I could comb my own hair.
Across the field, in the special section for paupers, I found a brass plate with my father's name spelled wrong. I wondered if he knows I graduated from college.
I wonder if any of the young generation will observe Decoration Day. I have to admit that one of the reasons that I spend the money and take the time to make sure all of my relatives have a plastic flower on that day, is so strangers walking past the grave will know that person is remembered. For me the ritual makes me stop for a day in my too busy life to turn the pages of my mental diary.
Weddings and graduations, Flag a=Day and Father's Day tend to ruffle our emotional feathers. Mothers, the keepers of emotions, stuff their purses and sleeves with extra hankies in anticipation of bittersweet tears. They have known, since making the first entry in the baby book, this day would come. Fathers, on the other hand, somehow thought they could put it all off for yet another year. Only when the mortar boards fly through the gymnasium will Dad begin to look at the world through misty eyes. He'll concentrate hard on the cadence of the wedding march song to keep the proper pace as he escorts his little girl and when the minister asks, "Who gives this woman?" he'll answer with a firm voice, "her mother and I." Nevertheless, when he steps onto the dance floor at the reception, and the music begins, "you're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold. Your Daddy's little girl to have and to hold", she will slip into his arms, but will not stand on his shoes. Then he will know. Then he will know.
When I was Daddy's little girl, I perched high on his shoulders to watch the summer parades or to watch Santa arrive in town. From there I could see all I ever needed to see. No doubt, my dad knew our days were numbered, but I, only seven, thought the golden summers would go on forever. When i look now, in that place behind my eyes where memories live, I can feel his tight grip on my ankle and wrist as he flies me through the air.
"Do it again, Daddy!"
And he did. Over and over, and then, the giggles ended except the memory.
I put the American flag out on Flag Day and I remember the little flags we waved at the soldiers who marched in our parades. I put small American flags on my brother's graves even though they lived long past World War II. I may be the only one left of our generation that is a memory keeper, but I am still a memory maker for those who will carry the plastic flowers into the next generation.