Isn’t it wonderful how we remember the memories of others, and how those memories become our own, and in turn are passed along? Take, for example, this one from my father’s Depression Era childhood on the farm:
His mother goes out to use the outhouse, and while she is inside, her son rains clods on that humble splintery shelter — upon which salute she comes out roaring and chases him through the yard, past the barn, under the mulberry tree, he laughing, she cursing, threatening, loving him, her proud glad heart grateful for the foolish exercise. And not just once, but dozens of times.
And now they are gone and I am nearing my sixtieth birthday.
It is all a painting of you, the faithful mirror replied . . . .