I expected 1997, the last year of my fifties, to be a monumental year in my life. So I decided to keep a journal and I wrote in it almost every day. For years, that journal has been tucked away on a high closet shelve along with pictures of our ancestors.
Reading it this week was a revelation. What a year! Jeremy left to spend a year in Chile advising indigenous Chileans about how best to sell their empanadas; Seth left to start a new job in NYC. Having had both nearby for two years, it was a huge loss for us.
But for me, even more than my transitioning to a challenging new position at my job that year, 1997 was the year of the wrinkle. One day I wrote about looking in the mirror and finding that parentheses had appeared between my eyebrows. Another time I wrote that the right side of my chin had “caved in”. (Nothing compared to my current face)
Astonishingly, I had forgotten about serious women in our sons’ lives that year. Long forgotten by me… I am wondering if the kids think about their loves of so many years ago.
Perhaps even more astonishing, I wrote a lot about losing sleep over challenges that I don’t remember. I even wrote about Peter’s being mad at me for something. In my memory, Peter was never mad at me.
So much forgotten. So much fun to revisit.