Winter is a time of forgetting.
I would be hard pressed to prove that I have a past. All the buildings through which I passed to get to winter, all the buildings of my spring and summer and fall, almost all of them are gone.
Mercy Hospital, where I learned to breathe. Lucretia Mott Public School # 3, where I learned to read. East Park Methodist Church, where I learned to pray. The Tacoma Theater, where I learned that good guys wear white hats and use six-shooters that never run out. Maple Crest, my mother’s name for our little farm, where I learned how and when to plant and harvest. The Storm and Ohio Theaters, where I learned that the words and the mouths don’t always match. The Departmental, my middle school, where I learned that I could set the curve. My high school, where I learned to appreciate curves. My college dormitory, Linden Hall, where I learned to think.
They exist now only in memory.
I used to imagine what would happen in the future. Now there is little future, and thus little to imagine. I have traded in imagination for memory. In imagination, anything can happen. In memory, one must deal with what actually did happen.
I read this recently: “Things started getting better when I stopped praying for a different past.”
Perhaps the forgetfulness of winter is a blessing. But if we can accept the memories, then they are a greater blessing than forgetfulness.
Winter is a time of accepting the forgotten.