Misty coloured thingies

Under the sea at the Vancouver Aquarium

If time is the fire in which we burn, then memories are the kindling.

With that said, I’m not sure how much of this kindling my six month old is retaining.

My oldest memory is of when I was two or three…I think. A mortorcycle accident. I remember a bloody man being loaded into an ambulance. Then I remember waving at my friend across the street.

But at six months old? Nothing. Just pictures my parents took that I now realize I’ve formed into pseudo memories.

Will the little hoser remember any of this? Elizabeth and I feel we are are emotionally imprinted every minute of every day.

Will he remember the kindness of strangers? The older gentleman who helped us on our way as we wandered blurry eyed from the sky train in Vancouver clueless and looking for our destination?

Will he remember the amount of young ladies who would, in 18 years, like to become his girlfriend? The number has now reached double digits. Some of the ladies are not so young.

Will he remember the amount of laughter he has brought into Elizabeth’s and my life with his hilariously timeless next level shits? Seriously, the kid is a hilarious crapper. Just when you think it couldn’t get funnier, he poops again.

Will he remember, when he is older, how fragile this whole stupid life thing is? How the little things that he thinks matter have no real weight when it comes to the long run? How we get one chance at it? Will he know that sadness is ok, but happiness is so much better? Will he care?

Will he remember that his mother and I love him, even though we won’t understand him at times? Even though he will rebel against us? Even though he won’t understand us and us not understand each other? So forth, so on, in aeternum…

These questions are not new. They will be asked forever and again. That doesn’t make them any less relevant.

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