Elapsed Time

Every time I update my blog I feel the need to explain the gaps of time spanning between posts. I look at my most recent blogs and think how long ago they were written, in just 2 weeks they are already old. The days I have failed to blog seem lost, and I feel overwhelmed by the amount of seconds that have ticked by without review. The other day I was looking for a baby picture of Mica, but my computer crashed last year and I lost a lot of data. When I realized I actually don't have very many baby pictures of her my heart ached as though along with the files the memories had somehow been erased. My Gramps has several large boxes filled with undeveloped film, random photos, and projector slides. They hold images of acquaintances who's names we have forgotten, houses we don't recognize, and family who has long since passed away. Some are scattered across a table, others are tucked into albums no one ever looks through. Why does every moment need to be chronicled to maintain its existence? These moments have passed but still there is some unspoken rule about throwing away random memories.

Less than 2 months ago I turned 28, and gaped at all the time that has slipped through my fingers, void of any true accomplishment. Shouldn't I have stuffed every moment with meaning, achieved every career I wanted as a child, and saved enough money for a McMansion by now? I don't know where that time went, and when I look back at my blogs and photos the gaps represent chunks of lost time. People say they should have journaled, they should have filled out that baby book, they should have taken a photo of their child every day from the day they were born so as not to lose even one second of a life that is passing us by much too quickly.

When I lost Mica's baby photos, did those moments become irrelevant? If they exist solely in my heart then how are they any different then an idea that comes to mind? Her first year is now intangible and without proof, and I could easily join the ranks of people saying I should have written everything down or taken a photo of each day. Only while snapping away with the professional grade camera, a lot of parents are missing the moments that really count. My wedding doesn't have a lot of photos, but I clearly remember every time our guests blew bubbles and Paul would lean down to kiss me, fulfilled promises in his eyes. I haven't saved all of JT's school pictures, but I remember how tightly we hugged that first morning of preschool, and how he flew into my arms when I came back for him. I have a scant handful of baby photos of Mica, but when I close my eyes I remember her sweet scent and the firm feel of her curled into a ball on my chest, her toes barely grazing my belly button.

When I go I will take all of those moments with me, and any photos left behind will accumulate in a box no one ever looks at. Our memories will be stuffed into an album packed away in someone's garage, and maybe one day they will take the album down and not even recognize us, but feel too guilty to throw pictures in the trash and instead pack the album back away in a corner to be forgotten. Eventually the ink will fade and the moment will be lost forever. I am sure that day will come all too soon. No amount of photos, blogging, posting or journaling are going to slow down the sands of time. What has happened is gone, and being afraid of the future is no excuse for living in the past.