This is not a script, but rather my way of imagining and putting into words the events that occurred in the life ... (read more)

 

This is not a script, but rather my way of imagining and putting into words the events that occurred in the life of a beloved one. They are real events, in which I was not present, nor could I participate in the happenings, decisions or actions that took place. In this case, I am but an observer of life events and memories.

Mother of the mother, my grand-mother, she opened up about her stories, narrations of distant times and places. I sit, listening to her talking about her early memories, her childhood and then her transitioning to adulthood. Aging is not generous to everyone. I consider my grandma lucky; even with many difficulties tormenting her path, she is still standing strong. A stroke and the recent loss of her child, my mother, added a distressful weight on her. As time passes by, gaps appear in her stories. It is not dementia, just her line of thoughts sometimes glitching in her mind.

I listen as my grandma describes her memories.

While being away, I gave her a task so that she can keep her memory active, trying to connect pieces like an old dusty puzzle forgotten in a drawer. She was asked to write down her stories, a memoir of her early years up until reaching her adolescence, which were stages in her life that she recalls with bliss and lightness. Such a paradox, considering that part of her first decade aligned with the disastrous events of the second World War, poverty, fear and mistrust.

In the back of my mind I keep the quote ‘Memory is not a faithful record of the past, even when the past was a quarter of a second ago.’ stated by Eleanor Maguire in her talk on the topic “The Neuroscience of Memory”. My grandma’s stories, precious as they are, get distorted with the passing of time. I can not help but also notice the cultural and social beliefs of another generation, deeply engraved on situations that need to be expressed.

As I stated earlier, I am but an observer of my grandma’s memories. By listening and imagining her reality, I cannot really actualize or revive her life events, finding myself chasing after floating and alternating fragments of her time. I visualize it through my own perspective, as a visitor that adds another layer of personal views on her stories.