I started writing a journal right around the time of my grandfather’s passing. I believe my decision to do so was in an effort to confront a loved one’s death and a reaction to what was a coming-of-age experience. I’ve kept up with my journal to this day, and it now serves as a treasure trove of memories.
Memories are a powerful emotion. My writing has largely been inspired by the experiences I have had over the course of my life. Along the way, I have gradually collected a library of the same, in my journal, that I’ve come to value dearly.
A few months ago, I posted a review on Will Eisner’s graphic novels. Among the ones I read, The Building left a long-lasting impression. Its premise focused on a building that served as the setting for the drama that brought together the story’s cast of characters. With the passing of time, the building’s subsequent aging and the corresponding circumstances reflect pivotal moments in each character’s life and their attachment to a building that has become synonymous with their life’s travails.
When my grandfather passed away, the decision was made for renovations to be done and for his home to be rented out to another family. I, on the other hand, was adamant that the house and its contents be left as they were, serving as a memorial in remembrance of the wonderful moments my family and I had shared with my grandfather in its quarters. In retrospect, I believe my frustrations were born of my unwillingness to let go but in due time I would do exactly that, leaning instead towards the descriptive passages of my journal to remember the irreplaceable memories of my grandfather and his home where I had spent much of my childhood. That was more than a decade ago.
Now, 29 years old, I found myself doing the same on the occasion of the passing of a close friend and mentor. Here too there was a venue, another building to remember. Gathering my accessories I traveled back in time to revisit it, allowing those memorable moments I had shared with my mentor to wash over the closeted corners of my mind. At times, a part of me wondered if my efforts were futile in nature and no different than the actions of my younger counterpart, in my inability to let go.
An answer initially felt out of reach but looking back at Eisner’s The Building I was able to string together a response. I realized that my struggle wasn’t about an inability to let go but a work in progress to accept a natural ritual of life we all experience at some point in our lives. It is in many ways similar to writing a story, and one that allows us to cherish the past while continuing our individual journey in the present.
It is a story that offers the bittersweet truth that time will always continue to flow forward. Often, this reality leaves us restless. It drives us to reach out to our memories, snapshots that somehow provide a semblance of permanence and peace, against the inevitable tempest of change.
At the same time, understanding this has also helped me realize how important it is to cherish the present, and to learn to live in the moment. What better can we do in memory of our loved ones than by living those moments that made us together, and sharing them with those who make our present in an eternal tribute.
The Pensive Reverie 