Making Memories
| October 10, 2023It’ll be over soon, and I’ll regret the missed opportunity. But still, I just don’t get to take the photos
IT hits me on the way to work, the first day back after Succos vacation. The multihued leaves are all over the place, flying past my glasses, getting stuck in the wheels of my stroller, crunching underfoot. I look down at my toddler, all comfy in her fur-lined burgundy jacket and cozy knit bonnet. She would look heaven posing for a picture against this background.
Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I’ll bring my camera and capture this for eternity; the fresh verdant leaves mixed with the palest of greens still clinging to life, the yellows, the vibrancy of “I know I’m dying, but I have one more day to live, so I’ll live it in the brightest possible way,” the browns, withered and weathered and wrinkled and old, but sticking around and allowing passersby to enjoy their delightful crunch.
But the days fall into each other, like a stack of dominos, and the camera stays in the right-hand corner of the bottom drawer in the dinette. Fall doesn’t last forever, I remind myself. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll regret the missed opportunity. But still, I just don’t get to take the photos.
And then it happens. I’m on the way to work one morning, rushing, rushing, always rushing, the wind slapping my face (gosh, when did it turn so cold?), and there’s a huge truck and florescent jackets and orange lights blinking, and I know that my opportunity is gone even before I see the rakers.
I look at the street, no longer painted with vibrant hues, and a small sadness settles in my heart. I was busy running, doing important things, mind you — trying to get to work on time, to provide for my family — but still, I was doing, doing, doing, not prioritizing making memories. And now my daughter will never have a photo of herself as a toddler in a maroon jacket, surrounded by autumn leaves.
I’M on the way home from work that afternoon, the sadness of a missed opportunity hitting me again as I notice the empty roads, the dejected bare branches, when I realize that I still have a decision to make. Do I want to be a person, a wife, a mother, a colleague, who only gets things done, or do I want to be able to look back at my years and know that I took the time to enjoy the gifts Hashem granted me?
And I make the decision — to slow down just a tad, to enjoy, to appreciate, to take the time to just breathe it all in. Because as much as we know that each moment that passes will never return, how often do we actually internalize it, in the business, in the hustle and bustle of our lives, the yesterday, today, tomorrow, all bleeding into each other, green and amber leaves, and burnt rust and cadmium and burgundy, all vying for our eyes, our minds, our time, our attention?
I mentally review my afternoon plans; grocery run, dump toddler in for a nap — please G-d, let it be a long one, so I can do things — call the butcher; put up something for supper; give a call to a kimpeturin friend; laundry, always laundry; the baby’s closet (gosh, her summer clothes are still out, and I do not need short tees tumbling out of the cupboard every morning).
And then I unstrap my princess from her stroller, let her walk all the way home, let her exult in the newness of walking the streets, exploring the world on her feet, the thrill of stopping for every car and doggy and tree.
She’ll never remember this, it’s true.
But I’ll never forget it, and that counts for something, too.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 863)
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