I found a picture on the internet today. A picture of my old bedroom on Scott Ave in Fort Wayne, the room that I helped paint with my Mother and Father. I remember the room painted the color blue, because at the time that was my favorite color, or perhaps the favorite color of my Mother.
The picture on the internet showed a ratty room, decrepit, probably in the near past a meth house or crack den. The neighborhood I grew up in is not the same as the present decaying hood. My memories grow dim with age, yet I remember the day we painted. A day full of excitement as we moved from a trailer into our house. A house with a yard and train tracks nearby. The seven-year-old little redheaded boy, adorned with the Pictish blue warpaint of his ancestors, was so happy. I didn’t find out until much later that my Father grew up around the corner on Thompson Ave. Indeed in the past, many of the Putt family lived within blocks of our house.
The memory of that day also brought a profound sadness. A melancholy that seems to embrace my soul and very being. I realized that all the memories I shared with my Mother and Father are mine, and mine alone. As well as the memories that I made with friends and loved ones that have passed into the great beyond. I am the sole living repository of those memories. Those memories are a great responsibility and burden. When I pass, these memories will pass too. All things must pass, dust to dust, and atom to atom.
There is a decision to make. Embrace the melancholy, a sure temptress, and retreat into absolute depression. Or remember the love, and bask in the glow of those times remembered. I think today, at this moment, I shall remember what it was like to be with both my parents, in a new house, working together, and embrace the love that passes all understanding.
