Or, if they do, if they do it as intently.
If they have been as conscious of the meaning. The importance.
The lasting impression.
I remember needing to remember at a very young age.
My Great Grandmother and I shared a birth date. I clearly recall sitting in a green strapped, slightly tarnished lawn chair on our door step and hearing her tell me. Remember this, darling girl.
So, I did.
So, I do.
When we moved from our ranch style home on Bridge Street, I stayed up all night. Peering, somewhat anxiously, out my bedroom window. I was nine. To this day, I can tell you the shadow the street lamp cast on the hedge outside my window. I had memorized the number of steps it took from the side of our house to the small hole in that hedge that I used to transport myself to Bonnie's house several times each day. I knew the slant of the mill roof across the road and memorized the way every piece of furniture fit in my first bedroom.
Before I left for college, I squeezed my eyes shut until the tears and colors of my room swirled together and cemented on the inside of my eyelids. Surely, when I was homesick, I could squeeze those eyes shut again and be somehow transported to my attic room, where the roses on the curtains I made in 7th grade would dance in the small town breeze and my very large stuffed bear would beckon me for a hug.
Lasting impressions. Perhaps not the kind you are used to or immediately think of. Literally, the impressions I have worked so very hard to make last in my brain... my heart... my very being.
The night after my daughter was born, the nurses yelled at me to get some sleep. How could I? How could I miss one iota of time when I should be memorizing the curve of her nose, the swirl of her light brown baby curls, the incredible power of her minute fist? I did not sleep that night.
It was great practice, I suppose, for the nights I sat by her hospital bed and gazed intently at her. Chest rise and fall, check. A very lasting impression.
I have a compulsion to remember every moment. Every detail MUST be of importance, right? This time is sacred, this day to be embraced. I acknowledge that it seems extreme, even to me... but I also know that my ability to recall physical details of loved ones gone or relive the most precious times of my life in grand detail is of immense comfort to me.
This is 2015. When Madi was in Kindergarten, and they would say "The Class of 2015", it was almost comical. I mean, seriously, that was SO far away.
Now, here we are.
She, a High School Senior. Me, a mother embedding every sweet second of her "lasts" into my hyper-aware Mama brain.
I find myself hoping for one more Netflix episode of Gilmore Girls with her by my side on the couch just so that I can shore up on the physical moments that make my memories clearer. How her head rests on my shoulder as she gets tired; how her laugh melds with mine as we watch our favorite show together; how her breathing changes as she drifts to sleep. I let her sleep on the couch, and lovingly cover her with my favorite blanket.
I wonder if, in a few months, she will find herself standing in her bedroom- bags packed and walls bare as she heads off to college- squeezing her eyes shut oh so tight and letting the images of this little world embed in to the backs of her eyelids so that, when she needs to, she can bring to life her vision of home.
I hope that she will carry with her the lasting impression of my love. That she can close her eyes and feel that love, wherever this crazy world may transport her.
Tomorrow, put down your cell phone. Stop snap chatting or checking facebook. Forget about YouTube or Vine. Take part of the day you have been given and see someone. See something. Memorize the details and imprint them on your heart. The lasting impression is a gift you may need someday, all too soon. Don't throw away the possibility of the memory.
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