There’s a LunarBaboon comic I printed out, snipped, and taped into my journal. As of this posting, it’s a fairly recent comic.
It got me thinking a lot. About my grandparents. About the campfire stories shared in my youth. About the way, after a good rain and before the humidity began to sauna the world, we’d dig up earthworms from the backyard or the playground at school.
It got me thinking of family outings. Trips to the beach. Trips to the zoo. Carnivals and the rides on which I was too afraid to ride. Of movies we went to see at the Citrus Theater when Mom was at her Saturday job. Of driving to grandma’s house on a Sunday morning before church. Of sleeping by an open window. Of playing outside. Of creating these memories. Memories that are permanent, but not unbreakable.
I wonder what sort of memories Shaun will have of me, the struggling father who tries to keep a balance in the world. Who touches on depression like one would religion. Too tired to start the day, but manages out of bed. Who spends time playing a game he’s unfamiliar with. A game I’m certain has no actual point. And I wonder if that’s why I keep the journal. As a way to not forget. As a way for him to understand me when he’s older and happens upon it. Because I don’t know what the future has in store for me. Or him. A disease could eat my memories away, leaving me a hollow husk of a man trying to remember a name.
Or a place.
Or a dream.
Struggling against the day, not wanting that night to set in. Who are we but our memories. The ones we have. The ones we’ll make.