The first thing I’ve written in my creative writing class:
“I am here. Feeling odd. Delving into an old memory that I hadn’t thought of in awhile. Sure, I’ve mentioned it. Joked about it. But I haven’t really experienced it since it happened.
We have good stories. I wish I could remember more of them . I wish I would’ve cataloged every single thing we did together. Always taken a picture. Always made a point to recognize that time with my dad was special. Now I just have fragments. Pieces of memories. Stories that have been retold so many times that I can’t recall the actual authenticity of them anymore. I have fragments of a father left. Not a whole picture.
As I regret my inactive cataloging of our time together, I realize: I don’t do this with the loved ones I still have…. Why don’t I do that?”