Preserving a Memory

Dylan was born on Father’s day. The third Sunday of June that year also happened to be Christiaan’s birthday. Since his father’s death almost three years ago, Dylan and I dread the beginning of summer, knowing that Father’s Day weekend is not just another holiday for us. This year we spent the entire weekend of this Hallmark holiday in June, in bed watching TV. I want to preserve his memory, I just don’t know how.

When I first moved from New York to Eugene, I was amazed by the fruit trees. I used to walk down the block and I knew exactly where to find figs, pears and blackberries. Growing up in the city, I thought fruit came from the fruit store, and nuts must be born in a can. I never considered that jam was made out of actual fruit. Had I been asked back then, I would have said that jam is not made from fruit, and leave it at that, not knowing where it comes from.

Christiaan’s memory is fading and rotting, like the summer fruit on our kitchen counter.  And just as I know nothing about preserving fruit, I know nothing about preserving memories. Were it that easy to pour his ashes into a pot and add some pectin to create a flavorful, new configuration, I would do it. But unlike fruit, a person’s memory is not preserved by cooking it.