During the years I've spent here in Italy, I've enjoyed moments I thought I would never forget. Beautiful views. The children at play. A sunrise. Birds singing. Alex laughing. I swore to myself "I will remember this moment, I'll photograph it in my brain and call it back for comfort in later years." Yet when I sit still and force myself to conjure up these memories, I can't. Place names, directions, phone numbers, people's names, favorite bicycles, math conversions, history lessons, all these less meaningful things: no problem. But those mental "photographs" I swore I would remember: forget it. I can barely picture Isolde when she was ten. Alex looks the same to me now as she did 18 years ago. Thomasina as a baby I recall only with the help of digital Google Photos. The photographs are what I remember, not the actual moments.
Perhaps because of this, I experience an underlying pang of sadness in every lovely moment that my lucky life conjures up. I know that time will take the memory away. That is a sad thing. At this time of dark early winter in particular, every sunrise, every falling leaf is only a dot of peace and pleasure soon to be replaced by who knows what. Probably more darkness and more cold.
Yesterday I read a simple article written by a former Vietnamese refugee who is now working in the Whitehouse. And it brought me to tears. I felt the extended hand of kindness from Obama himself. And I thought the world will never see another leader as sensitive and thoughtful as this one. Despite the mandate that brought him to office, the promise to extract ourselves from the mideast and its quagmire of petty infighting, the promise to staunch the utter waste and divert our resources to improve education and extend opportunity, the desire to free the political system from undemocratic influence, and despite the personality and intelligence of the man, where are we now near the end of his term? Are my fond memories of this period going to be replaced by photographs, criticisms, youtube clips, goals not met, promises unfulfilled, and hard won achievements quickly erased?
My story, his story. History, whether it be personal, private, public or cultural will be what our faulty memories sift out. What we want to believe and what we think has happened, reinforced by the odd sound bite or digital photo. Will I be able to recall the feelings of hope and potential, of respect for the stranger, of confidence in the random genius awaiting opportunity? I spent my life deeply distrustful of our presidents, and likely spend the rest of it in the same way. But for a brief but enormous moment.
Savor this presidency.
