Inspired by Laraine Herring’s thoughtful post today, I thought I’d take this lovely afternoon to post again.
Places and objects seem to carry energy, the spectral memory of the people that have touched them, abided in them, loved in them, cried in them, danced in them, slept in them. If that’s the case, then anytime we are somewhere we leave a residue of ourselves there – the spiritual version of George Washington slept here, I suppose.
For some, these lingerings reappear more in the way of memory – like the way I’m always called back to summers touring with my brother’s drum and bugle corps when I smell diesel exhaust or the way I flash back to the Blue Ridge Parkway every time I drive a road that dips and turns through an overhang of trees.
For some, me included, these lingerings are sometimes more physical (but not physical really) in that I see them as people – like a fuzzy playback of a person who has been there.
For some, these lingerings aren’t there – or aren’t seen – because we overlay those memories with others – new births, new deaths, new parties, new garden flowers.
But if we were to travel our lives backwards, I wonder what we would see. Would we run into ourselves, our spectors, living our lives then? Would we see ourselves in the mug our friend Brady made? Would the wood of our front deck where we used to ride our pink Hot Wheel lift us back to the waking world? Would the incubator in our little brothers hospital room where he slept at just a few hours old reflect our faces as we gazed at him?