Maybe it’s a new mom thing;
Maybe it’s because I’m trying to hold onto every moment,
to take in every everything about every minute,
as time seems to be racing by;
Maybe it’s just me,
but, just this week, I’ve been overcome
and overwhelmed
by memories.
They keeps sneaking up on me.
Like when I was searching around in the lazy susan in the beach house kitchen,
and I came across my old seahorse lunchbox.
I was flooded with the memories of my summer living the beach, when I worked as a camp’s theatre counselor, the year before I met my husband.
I opened the tiny, blue pail, to find my little silverware set tucked neatly inside.
I remembered using that tiny, yellow fork to spear hunks of watermelon from a plastic dish, as I sat, hungover, in the camp auditorium, and tried to stay awake.
That was the summer that I threw the best beach house parties (the only party parties I’ve ever thrown),
where we drank margaritas from a plastic bucket in the garage,
and slept, under mountains of comforters, on the living room couches,
not waking up the next morning until noon,
just in time to throw on my flip flops
and drive to the ice cream shop for breakfast.

I still cherish all that was that summer, and that lunchbox gave me an excuse to revisit those memories.
Earlier today, I had an insane Proust moment,
as I put a finishing gloss on my damp hair and inhaled the scent of the olive oil hair creme.
It was Barcelona.
Fredrick Fekkai had somehow managed to bottle the scent of my Spanish apartment.
I could not stop breathing it in,
as with every deep gulp of air,
I was able to conjure up a new memory of my time abroad.
That smell was so evocative,
so real,
so Barca.
Immediately, I texted Twin. Only she would understand. She did.
Yet another memory that I am so desperate to hold onto,
and enjoyed having, literally, on my fingertips, today.
Just a few minutes ago, I crept downstairs for some post-dessert-dessert. You know, sometimes a girl just needs a second helping.
Plus, I had hidden a very special treat for myself, tucked safely in a little nook behind the bread basket.
It was a small package of thin, almond biscuits.
With my first bite,
I saw my Nanny again.
My Nanny and I munched on these delicious biscuits during our High Tea dates,
as we talked about her favorite artists, my favorite Broadway shows and the beauty in the world.
I miss my Nanny, who passed away twelve years ago, for I know how much she would love being a great-grandmother to my daughter.
Sleepovers at my Nanny’s were so special, and I wish my daughter could experience those moments of joy.
I would wake up in the morning, completely enveloped in her plush down comforter,
and I can so vividly remember picturing myself, high above the town in my snuggly bed, as the rest of the world was outside, blanketed by an icy snow. For some reason, that image made me feel so warm and safe, and I treasured those feelings of contentment and coziness. My Nanny would bring me an elaborate breakfast in bed, using crystal glasses, fine china and freshly cut flowers. It was always so special. She was so special.
I have to remember to remember all of these memories,
so that I can tell them to my daughter,
as bedtime stories
as she grows.
Tonight, my little family and I snuggled in bed, and ate warm ricotta cheesecake, from right out of the container.
I hope that, several years from now, when I taste a bite of toasted coconut, or inhale some cool, salt air, or hear my husband laugh, warmly; deeply,
that I am flooded with the memory of tonight; A normal, every day, Wednesday night at the end of August,
in the first year of my baby’s life.
I want to remember every normal, every day, Wednesday night for the rest of my life.
I want to remember the feel of my baby’s smoothest skin as she sprawled across my chest, right before her evening bath.
I want to remember the look on her face as she devoured her oatmeal, opening her mouth like a baby bird, asking for more.
I want to remember the sound of the waves, the smell of our hamburgers grilling, the taste of the fresh strawberries I cut for my husband after breakfast,
and everything in between.
Please don’t let me forget. Please don’t let me forget. Please don’t let me forget.
I hope,
oh how I hope,
that the act of remembering to remember
will help me to keep the memories alive.
I guess I better go eat some more of that cheesecake,
just to make sure that I don’t forget anything, not one little bite.
I mean, bit.