Funny how memories work when you are grieving. They come unbidden and they are bittersweet. Mostly sweet. Mostly, I smile…sometimes with tears…grateful tears that Mom is whole again. Birthdays, Christmases, family trips, times with the grandkids, even childhood memories from when I was a little girl, all come forward as I flip through pictures. I feel she is joining in the nostalgic walk down memory lane and we are thinking back to good times.

But what of the more obscure memories? The ones that live on the outskirts of my mind. The ones that pop up in times like these and seem to have very little nostalgia associated with them. What of those memories? I don’t believe it is coincidence that seemingly inconsequential thoughts float into my consciousness. So, I dig a little deeper into them.

I flew down the long hill of our street. The pink glitter streamers on my handle bars flying in the wind along with my hair. The banana seat was covered with pink and purple 70s flowers. The bike of my dreams. My friends were speeding next to me on their own bikes. We were free as the birds. Our laughs were our songs. The streamers our wings.

We congregated at the end of the street to determine our next steps. Play in the creek? Keep riding? Go to one of our houses? So many choices. The late summer heat forced us to the creek. Turning over rocks, looking for salamanders. Barefoot, with cool water running over and reddish silt between our toes. As the sun lowered in the sky, the shade under the trees increased. It was a normal day in the neighborhood.

The bell rang out clearly. The sound carried on the humid air. Time to go home. I said goodbye, climbed up the bank and onto my bike and started up the hill. I arrived to a kitchen that smelled divine. A day of riding bikes and exploring the neighborhood leaves a kid hungry. My memory is that bell ringing. It stood beside our house on a tall post. Installed for the purpose of calling us to get home for dinner.

Another memory comes along. I don’t know the story. Mom isn’t here to explain it. I have this little clip of memory. I had seen a little boy named Phillip at church in his wheelchair. Non-verbal and unable to move on his own. I was young, fascinated, and a bit scared of little Phillip. I didn’t understand his differences.  

One day, we were in the car. The radio played. We took a turn I didn’t recognize. We pulled up at a house. My door swung open and I hopped out. Curious. Wondering. Mom was moving like she knew exactly where we were, familiar like. We stepped into the door and there was Philip on a special table. His mom was standing right beside him. My mom stepped up to the table. She reached for his legs and began moving them in different ways, while his mom moved his arms. They were very gentle. They talked to him like he could understand, though I didn’t think he could. His handicap required something called patterning…moving his arms and legs in different ways, since he couldn’t move them himself.

The next thing I knew I was holding his legs while Mom took his arms. Phillip’s mom had to step out for some reason, so I had to step in. Mom explained to me what moves to make. She encouraged me to talk to him and even though it felt weird, I did. After that day, I made sure to speak to him at church whenever I saw him.

Two little clips of memory that seem like foggy shadows in my mind. Barely there. Almost lost, but somehow dug from the depths, at this moment of grieving. I wait to see why. I ponder. I try, unsuccessfully, to piece together more details of the images. Mom is in both memories, but both are more about my own emotions during that time. Mom is not the main character, I am. So why these thoughts, now?  

I am sure on those two days Mom did not intentionally make a choice to create a formative memory with me. In fact, I think she was probably pretty glad to have me out of the house riding bikes with friends, so she could catch up on laundry and the house could be clean for more than 10 minutes. She didn’t know she was teaching me independence and how to make my own decisions. My time with Phillip was likely because I had somewhere to be that day right after her time with him, and it was easiest to take me with her rather than rush back home to pick me up. She didn’t know it would change the way I viewed kids with differences and possibly even influence my career in teaching children who struggle.

Now that Mom is physically gone, ALL memories are surfacing. The intentionally planned ones and the ones that were not even on her radar. Those were the ones where she shaped who I am now, without even knowing it. While going through her day to day life. While juggling a household with three children. Memories in which she had a support role.

Which brings me to a realization. You never know how your actions affect those around you. Even when you are not conscious of your influence, you are influencing. It’s something to think about, with kids and grandkids, and anyone else you come in contact with. I am grateful for the memories made with Mom that she curated, but I am also blown away by the ones which are surfacing now, that she didn’t even know about at the time. Now she does. And so, do I.