My Childhood is Dying: Memories in a Box

The mother of a childhood friend passed away. Learning of her death hit me emotionally and rather unexpectedly. She was a very sweet lady. She always asked my mom and my brother about me. She lived across the street from the house I grew up in. She died in hospice care in that same house. During one of my trips to Miami, I spent a little time with her again. She met my husband Steve.

The memories flooded my mind. Oh I lost track of her son long ago. We drifted apart like so many childhood friendships. Nobody’s fault, it just happens. We grow older and our lives no longer align on the same path. But his mother always had a place in my heart. When I saw her last, long after her son had married and moved away, it was like seeing an old friend, a warm reminder of my innocent childhood days.

My childhood is dying. It’s inevitable. Mentally we are all prepared for that reality, but emotionally we will never be. It doesn’t get easier. I remember when Donna Summer died. I remember when Prince died. I remember when the Bee Gees were all of a sudden only one Brother Gibb. They were pieces of my childhood that faded away.

As human beings, we strongly hold on to memories. Those memories live vividly in our minds, in our hearts. They are static like snapshots that tell a story. When reality barges in and abruptly rearranges that photo we are left with an emotional sea rushing through us. We get caught in an internal push and pull. The memories dive into a tug of war with the reality.

I can still remember clearly the last time I saw her. The house I once knew had changed dramatically thanks to her daughter and son-in-law, who were now its legal owners. But it was still a short walk across the pavement from the home that raised me. She looked older and had survived cancer, but her warmth was as young and strong as ever. Hers had not been the easiest life, but she still managed to see it with positivity and sunniness. Sitting in her living room with Steve by my side felt like yesterday meeting today.

In the last three years I also lost my aunt, my mother’s sister. She was a lady that I considered my second mom during my pre-teen years. I spent the night many times at her house, ate her food, and will never forget her secret recipe for chocolate milk – she added a pinch of salt. I must admit it was inexplicably yummy.

Her adopted son, my cousin, chose to distance himself from the family after her death. I texted him my condolences and even offered a memory or two to express how much his mom meant to me. His response was detached. I guess he felt that he was the family outsider because he wasn’t a blood relative. Now with the death of his one link to us, he made it clear that he was done. That was a double whammy. My childhood is dying.

We can’t go home again. That cliche is the ugly truth. When people who shaped your character, who helped build your very existence leave this world there’s no question that yesterday is gone. All we have left are memories neatly organized in a box.