Fading into Sepia
Dec. 1st, 2009 05:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayWe had one night, my sisters and I, to sift through the remains of my father's long life. He'd made a number of moves, in recent years, but still managed to remain anchored within thirty or so miles of the depression-era farm where he'd grown up.
The end result of these moves, especially the final ones from home to apartment to assisted living, was a drastic reduction in the material accumulations of a long life. In that respect, I'm sure the end of it, the winding down of it, was very different from what he, or any of the rest of us, might have expected.
And so, on the eve of departures to California and Nevada and Central New York, there was none of the measured, scrupulously weighed and carefully considered, "you take this and I'll take that because it'll best serve the memory of the one who now forever resides in the hills above this rust-belt version of Our Town."
I always thought there'd come a time when all those things that seemed like the hot, material core of his accumulated memories would be brought together, reach some sort of critical mass, and spill out onto paper for me, thereby attaining a permanence that the spoken version of his many stories never could.
Instead, I sat there and allowed myself to be overwhelmed by it, allowed the thoughts of getting quickly on the road and back into the flow of present time to sweep it all, piece by piece, out of hand and beyond any hope of its reconstitution as narrative.
Of that night, I now remember only two things. I remember a small, black and white photograph, now beginning its inevitable fade into sepia, of a long line of men in battle gear relaxing for a moment at the edge of a road between Cherbourg and Versailles. And I remember putting it back out on the table for whomever might better handle the weight of it.
As I think of it now, I know that the process will continue until all the faces, along with my father's memories of that pivotal moment in history, will all be gone...
LPK
LiveJournal
12.1.2009
The end result of these moves, especially the final ones from home to apartment to assisted living, was a drastic reduction in the material accumulations of a long life. In that respect, I'm sure the end of it, the winding down of it, was very different from what he, or any of the rest of us, might have expected.
And so, on the eve of departures to California and Nevada and Central New York, there was none of the measured, scrupulously weighed and carefully considered, "you take this and I'll take that because it'll best serve the memory of the one who now forever resides in the hills above this rust-belt version of Our Town."
I always thought there'd come a time when all those things that seemed like the hot, material core of his accumulated memories would be brought together, reach some sort of critical mass, and spill out onto paper for me, thereby attaining a permanence that the spoken version of his many stories never could.
Instead, I sat there and allowed myself to be overwhelmed by it, allowed the thoughts of getting quickly on the road and back into the flow of present time to sweep it all, piece by piece, out of hand and beyond any hope of its reconstitution as narrative.
Of that night, I now remember only two things. I remember a small, black and white photograph, now beginning its inevitable fade into sepia, of a long line of men in battle gear relaxing for a moment at the edge of a road between Cherbourg and Versailles. And I remember putting it back out on the table for whomever might better handle the weight of it.
As I think of it now, I know that the process will continue until all the faces, along with my father's memories of that pivotal moment in history, will all be gone...
LPK
LiveJournal
12.1.2009
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no subject
Date: 2009-12-01 12:03 pm (UTC)sometimes, you just have to accept that some things are too heavy, or some people are too tired.
some things are meant to fade into sepia.