take a sad song and make it better

Not long ago I chaperoned a half day hike for my son's second grade class. To pass the time (and distract from the fatigue) I offered to tell him and his best buddy a tale of my childhood. The boys grew quiet, eyes shining with expectation. I heard Jude whisper gleefully to Joselino "she tells the BEST stories!" 
  
To be honest, the week after this field trip was one of the worst I've had in years. It was awful for Jude, as well. I still can't think about it without fighting back tears. I would never advocate denial, but I've found that feelings and events seem to expand in proportion to the attention I give them. Once I acknowledge my part in a problematic situation and make the necessary amends, I need to move on in order to prevent negativity from defining my life and my story. As a parent, I am the filter of my children's memories, at least for now. If it's true that my stories are good ones, the value must lie in the details I choose to tell the tales.  

Years from now Jude and I will not recall the incredible weight of his backpack, the way Sophia cried when he accidentally knocked her over, or that (disgusting!) avocado on his sandwich. Nor will we dwell on our feelings of betrayal in the week that followed. Instead the things I write about, the photographs I take, the details that make it into each re-telling of the tale will shape our memories. This trip will forever be about hiking with Joselino while discussing MLK Jr., warding off zombies, and my teenage allergy attack that occurred while the rest of the family was away (wheezing + panic + steroids, oh my!) When he remembers this day, he will see the beautiful, impossibly tall trees and feel the wind whipping through his hair as he sprints for the finish line of the relay race.

My life overflows with joy, tragedy, and everything in between. I have hard drives full of photographs, but I rarely write the stories. And that's a shame, since words add a completely different texture and mood; they can illustrate, contextualize, transport us Ratatouille-style to a long forgotten experience woven into the very fabric of our beings. Because I know this so well, untold scraps of paper are stuffed into forgotten drawers, inscribed with hastily scrawled phrases- bubba grills, mowlawner, "oh man, this is a real bad crime scene!" I will never know how many of these moments have been forgotten. I do know that I'm no longer willing to miss the opportunity to preserve the best parts of the tales for future generations of hikers, eagerly anticipating that magical glimpse into their parents' history.  
This one's for you, Jude.