One recognizable pile

It’s January 2010, so I am about to take stock of my life. It’s more than ironic that at my age, the person I need to get to know most is myself. I will turn this house upside down if I have to, to find out how I came to be who I am right now. Years of forgotten moments have coalesced into this person I have to live with every day. In trying to understand her, every tidbit helps — a long lost friend, a photo, or sudden memory. I will sweep the scattered pieces of me back into one recognizable pile.

Having a granddaughter now, has me wondering how it felt to be a young mother. What were my daughters like at that age? Why did I make the choices I did? Memory is no photo album. I have to dig. I often come up empty. The good news is that I’m sure there are plenty of clues left lying around. I intend to comb this house until my vague recollection of what’s in these drawers, closets and boxes is clarified and I get a better picture of what the hell happened to the last 30-plus years since my kids were born.

I keep thinking, “Did I miss something?” Uh, yeah. Someone forgot to tell me that cohesion of the self doesn’t occur automatically. You have to kind of keep track of what you’ve said and done and thought or you’re constantly trying to decide what to say and think and do. This probably comes naturally to some people, but not me.

So I’ll take some time and take stock of who I’ve been so that one day I might recognize myself in the mirror as someone I used to know.

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