The idea of immortality had never really crossed my mind. Except, when discussing Brad Pitt’s character in the movie Troy and whether Achilles’ was immortal. That was, until I had my boys.
I often find myself watching them as they play, as they run havoc in circles around me, even as they lay cuddled on the couch watching TV and I wonder what they will remember about me. I wonder more so, what will I remember about my own parents? What do I remember about my grandparents? More so, what do I really know about any of them?
The romantic in me would like to climb up the stairs to an attic. Find an old, dusty wooden chest, filled with leather bound, soft, journals etched with my grandmothers writing. I would sit there, in the diffused sunlight and soak in the words that made up the tapestry of who she was. But there is no attic. No wooden chest. No stories of her struggles as a mother, raising six children on her own.
Boxes of old photos fill my life. The stack of digital photo albums sitting in the corner of my bedroom continually grows. Yet, these photographs only tell part of the story. The images are immortal. But the story can be lost.
So here I am – with my words and my blog. My mind wonders about being immortal and having an eternal voice. Not in the way of Achilles’ transcending history. But in a way that exists forever, in black and white.
I do want immortality. I want my voice to carry forward to the generations of my family to come. I do want my children to look back on my writings, and have an insight into what their mother felt or thought. I especially want my grandchildren to have the chance to understand and know who I was.
So I sit here with my words. Powerful, honest words. I know that they will be immortal, and therefore, in a way, so will I.
What stories do you tell your children? Why do you blog?
