I’m starting to realize that the older I get, the more details I lose from memories that once meant a great deal to me.

I remember a conversation hubby and I had when we first got together, it was about our earliest childhood memories. I remember my what I told him my earliest memory was, me sitting beside my younger sister’s crib watching the school bus drive off with my older sister aboard, and I vaguely recall the memory, but now it seems more like a memory of a memory. I used to be able to bring up every detail, such as the fact that it was spring, the leaves had not yet appeared on the trees, and my mom’s old cat was sitting outside the bedroom window howling, and I can still remember the details, but not as clearly anymore, they’re blurred, and I feel that if this wasn’t a memory that I brought up often I probably wouldn’t remember much of it at all.

I hate the thought that I’m losing my past! Sometimes I feel like I’m still living in the past and I don’t want it to be gone. I don’t want to forget all those moments that were special to me, the moments that made me who I am.

I used to keep journals all the time, but ended that practice when my journals got me into trouble with my first husband, whom shouldn’t have been snooping through them in the first place. He ended up burning all of them just days before we split up for good. Of all the crap he put me through, that is what I hate him for the most. He destroyed years worth of journals, all of my elementary school, all of my high school moments, and even the first three years of my son’s life were lovingly documented in those ratty old notebooks, and they meant the world to me.

After that I stopped journaling. Maybe because I didn’t want to take the risk of losing them again, or maybe so that there was just no record of my escapades.

But now I would kill to have those journals back, to have something to replace the murky blurry memories of those days with clearer pictures.