“Precious memories, how they linger, How they ever flood my soul…” (A beautiful song.)
Yesterday, while “downsizing,” I was reminded of a dear friend named George Bowden. Both of us were residents at the Escapees RV Club facility called “CARE” (Continuing Assistance Retired Escapees). Originally we were volunteers and later chose to make it “our forever home.” George was “an intellectual,” a “deep thinker.” (So much to be said; a paragraph of information could be shared.) Suddenly, unexpectedly, George was gone. I have the sheaf of papers we received when we attended his Memorial Service (April 2017). This touched my soul:
What is a photograph
but a footprint of a moment?
Not the moment itself,
but a dim, partial voice left behind,
mute and motionless,
pointing silently toward the past,
only hinting at the richness
of the living narratives of human experience.
Flipping through the pages of the scrapbooks of my life,
I see the old photographs–
those faded footprints–and I remember.
Ghosts of friends and family,
captured in moments of time,
come to life again.
My joy, my desire, my sorrow and dreams, my love,
my stories are once more given bright, fiery substance
by the sheer force of memory.
When I am gone and you open this book
and look upon these pictures from my life
without my memories,
what will these silent sentinels reveal?
They will be gone, yet you will still see me,
captured in a series of moments
across dog-eared pages for you to remember
as you continue to shape your own journey,
as you leave behind your own footprints.